^/x 

University-  of  Cdtf 


T/ie  Thcodoi  \ 


of  Am 


v   -I  fc 


"The  Singing  Mouse  came  and  sat  upon 
the  table." 


The  Singing 

Mouse 
Stories. 


BY 

E.   HOUGH. 


NEW  YORK  : 

FOREST  AND  STREAM  PUB.  Co. 
1895- 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BY 
K.  HOUGH. 


CONTENTS. 

Tijp7.  LAND  OF  THE  SINGING  MOUSE     Page     15 

THE  BURDEN  OF  A  SONG  21 

THE  LITTLE  RIVER  31 

WHAT  THE  WATERS  SAID  41 

LAKE  BELLE-MARIE  53 

THE  SKULL  AND  THE  ROSE  63 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  73 

AT  THE  PLACE  OF  THE  OAKS  79 

THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  HOURS  95 

THE  TEAR  AND  THE  SMILE  103 
How  THE  MOUNTAINS  ATE  UP  THE  PLAINS   113 

THE  BEAST  TERRIBLE  119 

THE  PASSING  OF  MEN  135 

THE  HOUSE  OF  TRUTH  147 

WHERE  THE  CITY  WENT  159 

THE  BELL  AND  THE  SHADOWS  171 


"Thoughts,  thoughts  and  remembrances,'* 
said  the  Singing  Mouse.  "It  is  only 
the  shadows  that  are  real." 


The  Land  of  the 
Singing  Mouse. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE 
SINGING  MOUSE. 

is  my  room.  I  live  here. 
These  are  my  things,  My 
friends  come  here  sometimes, 
such  as  I  have  left.  They  are 
welcome  to  anything  I  have. 

That's  my  coat.  Worn  a  little. 
That 's  my  gun.  Yes,  the  bar 
rels  are  a  trifle  brown.  That's 
my  rifle.  The  stock  was  broken 
in  the  Rockies.  Yes,  I  know 
the  tip  of  the  old  rod  is  broken. 
And  there's  a  guide  or  so  gone. 
And  the  silk  is  fraying  in  the 
lashings.  And  the  silver  cord  on 
the  hand-piece  is  loose.  The 
silver  cord  will  loosen  and  break 
some  day,  in  the  very  best  of 
men — rods,  I  mean. 

There's  the  table.  There  are  n't 
any  keys.  Here's  the  fire.  You 
are  welcome,  I  know,  to  anything 
there  is  here  .... 

But   the    Singing   Mouse  will 

not  come  out ;    not  while  you  are 

here.     But  after  you  have  gone, 

after  the  fire   has  burned  down 

15 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

and  the  room  is  all  still — usually 
near  midnight,  as  I  sit  and  muse 
alone  over  the  dead  or  dying 
fire — why,  then  the  Singing 
Mouse  comes  out  and  asks  for  its 
bit  of  bread ;  and  then  it  folds 
its  tiny  paws  and  sits  up,  and 
turning  its  bright  red  eye  upon 
me,  half  in  power  and  half  in 
beseeching,  as  of  some  fading 
memory  of  the  past  —  why,  it 
sings,  I  say  to  you ;  it  sings  ! 
And  I  listen  ....  And  the  fire 
blazes  up  ....  The  walls  are 
rich  in  art  now  ....  My  rod  is 
new  and  trig  now  ....  There  is 
work,  but  there  is  no  worry  now. 

I    am  rich,  rich  !      I  have 

the  Singing  Mouse.  And  so 
strange,  so  wondrous,  so  real  are 
the  things  it  sings  ;  so  bewitching 
is  the  song,  so  sweeter  than  that 
of  any  siren's  ;  so  broad  and  fine 
are  the  countries  ;  so  strong  and 
true  are  the  friendships  ;  so  brave 
and  kind  are  the  men  I  meet — so 
beautiful  the  whole  world  of  the 
Singing  Mouse,  that  when  it  is 

16 


THE   LAND   OF  THE   MOUSE. 

over,  and  in  a  chill  I  start  up,  I 
hardly  can  bear  the  shrinking  in 
of  the  walls,  and  the  grayness  of 
the  once  red  fire,  and  my  gold 
turned  to  earthenware,  and  my 
pictures  turned  to  splotches.  In 
my  hand  everything  I  touch  feels 
awkward  ;  a  pen — a  pen — to  talk 
of  that!  If  one  could  use  it  while 
in  the  land  of  the  Singing  Mouse 
— then  it  might  do.  I  think  the 
pens  there  are  not  of  wood  and 
iron,  stiff  things  of  torture  to 
reader  and  writer.  I  have  a 
notion— though  I  have  not  exam 
ined  the  pens  there — that  they  are 
made  from  plumes  of  an  angel's 
wing  ;  and  that  they  could  talk, 
and  say  things  which  would  make 
you  and  me  ashamed  and  afraid. 
Pens  such  as  these  we  do  not 
have. 


The  Burdei 
of  a  Song 


THE  BURDEN 
OF  A  SONG. 

Singing  Mouse  came  out. 
Quaintly  and  sweetly  and 
with  wondrous  clearness  it  began 
an  old,  old  song  I  first  heard  long 
ago.  And  as  it  sang,  back  with 
red  electric  thrill  came  the  fine 
blood  of  youth,  and  beat  in  pulse 
with  the  song  : 

"  When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green, 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen. 

Then  hey  !  for  boot  and  saddle,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away  ! 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day  !  " 

And  young  blood  began  its 
course  anew.  Booted  and  spurred, 
into  the  saddle  again  !  Face 
toward  the  West !  And  off  for 
round  the  world  away  ! 

' '  There  are  green  fields  in 
Thrace,"  sighs  the  gladiator  as 
he  dies.  And  here  were  green 
fields  in  the  land  before  us. 
Only  these  were  the  inimitable 
and  illimitable  fields  of  Nature. 
Sheets  and  waves  and  billows 
and  tumbles  of  green ;  oceans 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

unswum,  continents  untracked, 
of  thousandfold  green.  Then,  on 
beyond,  the  gray,  the  gray- 
brown,  the  purple-gray  of  the 
higher  plains ;  nearer  than  that,  a 
broad  slash  of  great  golden 
yellow,  a  band  of  the  sturdy 
prairie  sunflowers ;  and  nearer 
than  that,  swimming  on  the  sur 
face  of  the  mysterious  wave  which 
constantly  passes  but  is  never 
past  on  the  prairies,  bright  red 
roses,  and  strong  larkspur,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  this  ever  shifting 
sea,  jewels  in  God's  best  blue 
enamel.  You  cannot  find  this 
enamel  in  the  windows.  One 
must  send  for  it  to  the  land  of 

the  unswum  sea. 

***** 

A  little  higher  and  stronger 
piped  the  compelling  melody. 
Why,  here  are  the  mountains ! 
God  bless  them  !  Nay,  brother, 
God  has  blessed  them;  blessed 
them  with  unbounded  calm,  with 
boundless  strength,  with  unspeak 
able  peace.  You  can  take  your 


THE   BURDEN   OF  A  SONG. 

troubles  to  the  mountains.  If 
you  are  Pueblo,  Aztec,  you  can 
select  some  big  mountain  and 
pray  to  it,  as  its  top  shows  the  red 
sentience  of  the  oncoming  day. 
You  can  take  your  troubles  to  the 
sea ;  but  the  sea  has  troubles  of 
its  own,  and  frets.  There  is 
commerce  on  the  sea,  and  the 
people  who  live  near  it  are  fretful, 
greedy,  grasping.  The  moun 
tains  have  no  troubles  ;  they  have 
no  commerce.  The  dwellers  of 
the  mountains  are  calm  and 
unfretted. 

And  on  the  broad  shoulders  of 
the  mountains  once  more  was 
cast  the  burden  of  the  young 
man's  troubles,  and  once  more  he 
walked  deep  into  the  peace  of  the 
big  hills.  And  the  mountains 
smiled  not,  neither  wept,  but 
gravely  and  kindly  folded  over, 
about,  behind,  the  gray  mantle 
of  the  canon  walls,  and  locked 
fast  doors  of  adamant  against  all 
following,  and  swept  a  pitying 
hand  of  shadow,  and  breathed 
23 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

that  wondrous  unsyllabled  voice 
of  comfort  which  any  mountain 
goer  knows.  Ai!  the  goodness 
of  such  strength !  Up  by  the 
clean  snow ;  over  the  big  rocks  ; 
by  the  lace-work  stream  where 
the  trout  are — why,  it's  all  come 
again  !  That  was  the  clink  made 
by  a  passing  deer.  That  was  the 
touch  of  the  green  balsam — smell 
it,  now!  And  there  comes  the 
mist,  folding  down  the  top.  And 
there  is  the  crash  of  the  thunder  ; 
and  this  is  the  rush  of  the  rain, 
and  this  is  the  warm  yellow  sun 
over  it  all — O,  Singing  Mouse, 
Singing  Mouse ! 

Back  again  now,  by  some 
impulse  of  the  dog  which  hasn't 
had  any  day.  It  is  winter  now,  I 
remember,  Singing  Mouse,  and 
I  am  walking  by  the  shore  of 
the  great  Inland  Seas.  There  is 
snow  on  the  ground.  The  trees 
look  black  in  contrast  as  you 
gaze  up  from  the  beach  against 
the  high  bank.  It  is  cold.  It  is 
dark.  There  is  a  shiver  in  the 
24 


THE  BURDEN  OF  A  SONG. 

air.  There  are  icicles  in  the  sky. 
Something  is  flying  through  the 
trees,  but  silent  as  if  it  came  out 
of  a  grave.  I  have  been  walk 
ing,  I  know.  I  have  walked  a 
million  miles,  and  I'm  tired.  My 
legs  are  stiff,  and  my  legging  has 
frozen  fast  to  my  overshoe ;  I 
remember  that.  And  so  I  sit 
down — right  here,  you  know — 
and  look  out  over  the  lake — just 
over  there,  you  see.  The  ice 
reaches  out  from  the  shore  into 
the  lake  a  long  way  ;  and  it  is 
covered  with  snow,  and  looks 
white.  I  can  follow  that  white 
glimmer  in  a  long,  long  curve  to 
the  right — twenty  miles  or  more, 
maybe.  Yes,  it  is  cold.  But 
ah !  what  is  that  out  there,  and 
what  is  it  doing  ?  It  is  setting  all 
the  long  white  curve  of  ice  afire. 
It  is  throwing  down  hammered 
silver  in  a  broad  path,  out  there 
on  the  water.  Those  are  not 
ripples.  That  is  silver  !  There 
will  be  angels  walking  on  that 
pathway  before  long !  That  is 
25 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

not  the  moon  coming  up  over 
the  lake !  It  is  the  swinging 
open,  by  some  careless  angel's 
mischance,  of  the  door  of  the 
White  City  of  Rest ! 

How  old,  how  sore  a  man 
climbed  up  the  steep  bank! 
There  were  white  fields.  In  the 
distance  a  dog  barked.  Away 
across  the  fields  a  bright  and 
cheery  light  shone  out  from  a 
window,  and  as  the  moon  rose 
higher,  it  showed  the  house 
which  held  the  light.  It  was 
not  a  large  house,  but  it  seemed 
to  be  a  home.  Home  ! — what  is 
that?  I  wondered;  and  I 
remember  that  I  pulled  at  the 
frozen  legging,  and  moved,  with 
pain,  the  limbs  grown  tired  and 
sore.  And,  as  one  looked  at 
that  twinkling,  comfortable  light, 
how  plainly  the  rest  of  the  old 
song  came  back  : 

"  When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown, 
And  all  the  sports  are  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down, 
Creep  home  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  sick  and  maimed  among. 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there. 

You  loved  when  you  were  young." 

26 


THE   BURDEN   OF   A   SONG. 


The  light  in  the  little  house 
went  out.  I  think  it  was  a  happy 
home.  So  may  yours  be  always. 


The  Little 
River. 


THE  LITTLE 
RIVER. 

Singing  Mouse  came  out 
and  sat  upon  my  knee.  It  fixed 
its  small  red  eye  upon  me,  and 
lifted  its  tiny  paws,  so  thin  the 
fire  shone  through  them.  And 
it  sang.  .  .  .  Like  the  voice  of 
some  night-wandering  bird  of 
melody,  hid  high  in  the  upper 
realms  of  darkness,  came  faint 
sweet  notes  falling  softly  down. 
It  was  as  if  from  the  deep  air 
above,  and  from  the  wide  air 
around,  there  were  dropping  and 
drifting  small  links  of  silken  steel, 
gentle  but  strong,  so  that  one 
were  helpless  even  had  he  wished 

to  move.     I  listened,  and  I  saw. 
*        *         *         *        * 

There  were  low  rolling  hills, 
covered  and  crowned  with  thick 
growth  of  hazel  thickets  and 
short  oaks.  Between  these  hills 
ran  long  strips  of  green,  strung 
on  tiny  bands  of  silver.  And  as 
these  bands  moved  and  thickened 
and  braided  themselves  together, 
31 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

I  seemed  to  see  a  procession  of 
the  trees.  The  cottonwoods 
halted  in  their  march.  The  box- 
alders,  and  maples,  and  water- 
elms,  and  walnuts  and  such  big 
trees  swept  grandly  in  with 
waving  banners,  and  wound  on 
and  on  in  long  procession,  even 
down  to  two  blue  distant  hills  set 
at  the  edge  of  the  world,  unpassed 
guardians  of  a  land  of  dreams. 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  I  look  back  at 
those  two  hills  now,  and  the  land 
of  dreams  lies  still  beyond  them, 
it  is  true,  but  it  is  now  upon  the 
side  whence  I  first  gazed.  It  is 
back  there,  where  one  cannot  go 
again ;  back  there,  along  that 
crystal,  murmuring  mystery  of 
the  little  stream  I  knew  when  I 
was  young  ! 

Ah,  little  river,  little  river,  but 
I  am  coming  back  again.  Once 
more  I  push  away  the  long  grass 
and  the  swinging  boughs,  and 
look  into  your  face  again.  Again 
I  dabble  my  bare  feet,  and  scoop 
up  my  straw  hat  full,  and  watch 
32 


THE  LITTLE  RIVER. 

the  tiny  streams  run  down. 
Again  I  stand,  bare  and  small 
and  trembling,  wondering  if  I  can 
swim  across.  And  —  listen,  little 
river  —  again  at  the  same  old 
place  I  shall  cut  me  the  willow 
wand,  and  down  the  long  slope 
to  the  certain  place  I  knew  I  am 
going  to  hurry,  running  the  last 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  sheer  expec 
tation,  but  forgetting  not  the 
binding  on  of  the  tough  linen 
line.  And  now  I  cast  my  gaudy 
float  on  that  same  swinging, 
thimpling,  gentle  eddy,  and  let 
it  swim  in  beneath  the  bank. 
And  —  No  !  Can  it  be  ?  Have  I 
here,  now,  again  plainly  in  my 
hands  the  strange  and  wonderful 
creature,  the  gift  of  the  little 
stream  ?  Is  this  its  form,  utterly 
lovable  ?  Is  this  its  coat,  wrought 
of  cloth  of  gold  and  silver  ?  Are 
these  diamonds  its  eyes  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
little  river,  little  river,  give  me 
back  this  gift  to  keep  forever ! 
Why  did  they  take  it  from  me  ? 
All  I  have  I  will  give  to  you,  if 
33 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

you  will  but  give  back  to  me,  to 
have  by  me  all  the  time,  this 
little  fish  from  the  pool  beneath 
the  boughs.  I  have  hunted  well 
for  him,  believe  me,  hard  and 
faithfully  in  many  a  place,  but 
he  is  no  longer  there.  I  find  him 
no  longer  even  in  the  remotest 

spots  I  search But  this  is 

he!  This,  in  my  hands,  here  in 
actual  sight,  is  my  first,  my 
glorious,  iridescent,  radiant  prize  ! 
Pray  you,  behold  the  glittering. 
But  along  this  little  river  there 
were  other  things  when  the 
leaves  grew  brown.  In  those 
low,  easy  hills,  strange  creatures 
dwelt.  Birds  of  brown  plumage 
and  wondrous,  soul-startling  burst 
of  wing.  Large  gray  creatures, 
a  foot  long  or  longer,  with  light 
tread  on  the  leaves,  and  long  ears 
that  go  a-peak  when  you  whistle 
to  them.  Were  ever  such  beings 
before  in  any  land?  For  the 
pursuit  of  these,  it  seems,  one 
must  have  boots  with  copper  toes, 
made  waterproof  by  abundant 

34 


THE   LITTLE   RIVER. 


tallow.  There  must  be  a  vast 
game-bag — a  world  too  large  for 
a  boyish  form — and  strange  things 
to  eat  therein,  such  as  one  sees 
no  longer ;  for  on  a  chase  calling 
for  such  derring  do  it  may  be 
needful  that  one  walk  far,  across 
the  hills,  along  the  little  river, 
almost  to  the  Delectable  Mount 
ains  themselves.  Again  I  see  it 
all/  Again  I  follow  through  the 
hills  that  same  tall,  tireless  figure 
with  the  grave  and  kindly  face. 
Again  I  wonder  at  the  uncom- 
prehended  skill  which  brought 
whirling  down  ten  out  of  the 
dozen  of  those  brown  lightning 
balls.  Again  I  rejoice  beyond 
all  count  or  measure,  over  the 
first  lepine  murder  committed  by 
myself,  the  same  furthered  by 
means  of  a  rest  on  a  forked  tree. 
It  seems  to  me  I  groan  secretly 
again  at  the  weight  of  that 
great  gun  before  the  night  has 
come.  I  could  wince  again  at 

35 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

the  pulling  off  of  those  copper- 
toed  boots  at  night,  there  by  the 
kitchen  stove,  after  the  chase  is 
done.  But,  ah !  how  happy  I  am 
again,  holding  up  for  the  gaze 
of  a  kind  pair  of  eyes  this  great, 
gray  creature  with  the  lopping 
ears. 


Now,  as  we  walk  by  the  banks 
of  this  magic  river,  I  would  that 
it  might  be  always  as  it  was  in 
the  earliest  days.  I  like  best  to 
think  myself  mistaken  when  I 
suspect  a  greater  stoop  in  this 
once  familiar  form  which  knew 
these  hills  and  woods  so  well.  It 
cannot  be  that  the  quick  eye 
has  grown  less  bright.  Yet  why 
was  the  last  mallard  missed? 
And  tell  me,  is  not  the  old  dog 
ranging  as  widely  as  once  he  did  ? 
Can  it  be  that  he  keeps  closer  at 
heel  ?  Does  he  look  up  once  in  a 
while  mournfully,  with  a  dimmer 
eye,  at  an  eye  becoming  also 
dimmer — does  he  walk  more 
36 


THE  LITTLE   RIVER. 

slowly,  by  a  step  now  not  so 
fast?  Does  he  look  up — My 
God  ! — is  there  melancholy  in  a 
dog's  eye,  too  ? 


What  the 
Waters  Said. 


WHAT  THE 
WATERS  SAID. 

fire  was  flickering  fitfully, 
and  painting  ghostly  shadows 
on  the  wall.  It  was  winter,  and 
late  in  winter ;  indeed,  the  season 
was  now  at  length  drawing  near 
to  the  end  of  winter,  and 
approaching  that  dear  time  of 
spring  which,  beyond  doubt,  will 
be  the  eventual  front  and  closing 
of  the  circle  in  the  land  where 
winter  will  not  come. 

I  had  drawn  the  little  pine 
table  close  to  the  heap  of  failing 
embers,  and  aided  by  what  light 
the  sulky  candle  gave,  was  bend 
ing  over  and  trying  to  arrange 
a  patch  on  my  old  hunting  coat. 
It  was  an  old,  old  hunting 
coat,  far  gone  in  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf.  It  was  old-fashioned 
now,  though  once  of  proper  cut 
and  comeliness.  It  was  disfigured, 
stained  and  worn.  The  pockets 
were  torn  down.  The  bindings 
were  worn  out.  It  was  quite 
willing  to  be  left  alone  now, 
41 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE  STORIES. 

hung  by  upon  a  forgotten  nail, 
and  subject  to  no  further  requisi 
tion.  Nevertheless,  if  its  owner 
wished,  it  could  still  do  a  day 
or  two.  I  knew  that ;  and  some 
thing  in  the  sturdy  texture  of 
its  oft-tried  nature  excited  more 
than  half  my  admiration,  and 
all  my  love. 

Walpurgis  on  the  ceiling,  gray 
coming  on  in  the  embers, 
S3^mptoms  of  death  in  the  candle, 
a  blotch  of  tallow  on  the 
Shakspere,  and  the  coat  not 
half  done.  It  must  have  been 
about  then,  I  think,  that  the 
thin-edged  sweetness  of  the 
Singing  Mouse's  voice  pierced 
keenly  through  the  air.  I  was 
right  glad  when  the  little  creature 
came  and  sat  on  my  knee,  and 
in  its  affectionate  way  began  to 
nibble  at  my  finger-tips.  It  sat 
erect,  its  thin  paws  waving  with 
a  tiny,  measured  swing,  and  in 
its  mystic  voice,  so  infinitely 
small,  so  sweet  and  yet  so 
majestically  strong,  began  a  song 
42 


WHAT  THE   WATERS   SAID. 

which  no  pen  can  transcribe. 
Knowing  that  the  awakening 
must  come,  but  unwilling  to  lose 
a  moment  of  the  dream,  I,  who 
with  one  finger  could  have 
crushed  the  little  thing,  sat 
prizing  it  more  and  more,  as 
more  and  more  its  voice  swept, 
and  swelled,  and  rang ;  rang, 
till  the  fire  burst  high  in  noble 
pyramids  of  flame  ;  rang,  till  the 
candle  flashed  in  thousand 
crystals  ;  swelled,  till  the  walls 
fell  silently  apart,  and  showed 
that  all  this  time  I  had  been 
sitting  ignorant  of,  but  yet 
within  a  grand  and  stately  hall, 
whose  polished  sides  bore 
speaking  canvas  and  noble 
marbles ;  swept  up  and  around, 
till  every  stately  niche,  and 
every  tapestried  corner,  and 
every  lofty  dome  rang  gently 
back  in  mellow  music — all  for 
the  Singing  Mouse  and  me. 

Small  wizard,  it  was  cunning 
of  thee  to  paint  upon  the  wall 
this  picture  of  the  old  mill  dam. 

43 


THE  SINGING  MOUSE  STORIES. 

How  naturally  the  wooded  hill 
slopes  back  beyond  the  mill. 
And  how,  with  the  same  old 
sleepy  curves,  the  river  winds  on 
back.  How  green  the  trees — 
how  very  green.  Ah,  Singing 
,'1|  Mouse,  they  do  not  mix  that 

^||  color    now.      And    nowhere    do 

wide  bottom-lands  wave  and  sing 
in  such  seemly  grace,  so  decked 
with  yellow  flowers,  with  odd 
Sweet  William  and  the  small 
wild  rose.  And  nowhere  now  on 
earth,  I  know,  is  there  any  stream 
to  murmur  so  sweetly  and  so 
comfortably,  to  say  such  words 
to  any  dreaming  boy,  to  babble 
of  a  work  well  done,  of  conscience 
clear  and  of  a  success  and  happi 
ness  to  come.  All  that  was  in 
the  river.  If  I  listen  very  hard, 
and  imagine  very  high  and  very 
deep,  I  can  almost  pretend  to 
hear  them  now,  those  old  words, 
heard  when  I  was  young.  The 
voices  are  there,  I  doubt  not, 
and  there  are  other  boys.  God 
keep  them  boys  always,  and  may 

44 


WHAT   THE   WATERS    SAID. 

they  dream  not  backward,  but 
ahead. 

This  lazy  pool  beneath  the  far 
wing  of  the  dam,  how  smooth 
it  looks.  Yet  well  I  know  the 
sunken  log  upon  its  further 
side.  I  have  festooned  it  full  oft 
with  big  hook  and  hempen  line. 
And  from  that  pool  how  many 
fatuous  fishes  have  I  not  hauled 
forth.  Here  we  came  often, 
when  we  were  boys;  and  once 
did  not  certain  bold  souls  sleep 
here  all  night,  curled  up  along 
the  bank,  waking  the  next  morn 
ing  each  with  a  sore  throat,  'tis 
true,  but  with  heart  full  proud 
at  such  high  deed  of  valor  ! 

And  there  is  the  long  wooden 
bridge.  What  a  feat  of  engineer 
ing  that  bridge  once  seemed  to 
our  untraveled  souls.  Behold  it 
now,  as  it  was  then,  lying  in  the 
level  rays  of  the  rising  moon,  a 
brilliant  causeway  leading  over 
into  a  land  of  mystery,  to  glory 
perhaps;  perhaps  to  failure, 
forgetfulness,  oblivion  and  rest. 

45 


THE  SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

And  there,  I  declare,  at  the  other 
end  of  this  great  roadway- 
swimming  up,  I  declare,  in  the 
same  old  way — is  the  great  round 
moon  whose  light  served  us 
when  we  stayed  late  at  the  dam 
in  the  summer  evenings.  And 
the  shadows  of  the  bridge  timbers 
are  just  as  long  and  black;  and 
the  ripples  over  the  rocks  at  the 
middle  span  are  just  as  beautiful 
and  white.  And  here,  right  at 
our  feet  again,  the  moon  is  play 
ing  its  old  tricks  of  painting  faces 
in  the  water. 

There  are  too  many  faces  in 
the  water,  Singing  Mouse  ;  and 
I  beg  you,  cease  repeating  the 
words  about  the  ' '  Corpus  Delicti ! " 
You  would  make  one  shudder. 
Let  us  look  no  more  at  faces  in 

the  water. 

*         *         *         *         * 

But  still  you  bide  by  the  waters 
to-night,  wizard  ;  for  here  is  a 
picture  of  the  sea.  It  is  the  sea, 
and  it  is  talking,  as  it  always 
does.  There  are  some  who 
46 


WHAT  THE   WATERS   SAID. 

think  the  sea  speaks  only  of 
sorrow,  but  this  is  not  wholly 
true.  If  you  will  listen  thought 
fully  enough,  you  will  find  that 
it  is  not  all  of  troubles  that  the  sea 
is  whispering.  Nor  does  it  speak 
always  of  restlessness  and  change. 
Some  find  a  stimulus  beside  the 
sea,  and  say  it  brings  forgetful- 
ness.  Rather  let  us  call  it  exalta 
tion.  Much  more  than  of  a  petty 
excitement,  fit  to  blot  a  man's 
momentary  woes,  it  speaks  in  a 
sterner  and  a  stronger  note.  It 
throbs  with  the  pulse  of  a  further 
shore.  It  speaks  of  a  quiet  tide 
making  out  to  the  Fortunate 
Islands,  and  tells  of  a  way  of 
following  gales,  and  of  a  new 
Atlantis,  somewhere  on  beyond. 
How  dear  this  dream  of  a 
different  land,  this  story  of 
Atlantis,  pathetically  sought. 
Certainly,  Atlantis  is  there,  out 
beyond,  somewhere  in  the  sea  ; 
and  truly  there  are  those  who 
have  discovered  it,  and  those  who 
still  may  do  so.'  I  know  it, 

47 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

Singing  Mouse,  for  I  can  read  it 
written  in  the  hollow  of  this  tiny 
shell  of  pink  you  have  found  here 
by  the  shore, — borne  across  to 
us,  we  may  not  doubt,  by  an 
understanding  tide  from  a  place 
happily  attained  by  those  who 
wrote  the  message  and  sought  to 
let  us  know. 


"  I,ong  time  upon  the  mast  our  brown  sail 

flapped  ; 
Our  keel  plowed  bitter  salt,   and 

everywhere 
The  ominous   sky   in   sullen    mystery 

wrapped, 
What  side  we  looked  on,  either  here  or 

there, 
The  welcome  sight  of  land  long  sadly 

sought ; 

And  that  Atlantis,  hid  within  the  sea, 
The  land  with  all  our  hope  and  promise 

fraught, 
We  saw  not  yet,  nor  wist  where  it  might  be. 


But  as  we  sailed  as  manful  as  we  might, 

And  counted  not  the  sail  more  fit  than  par, 
Lo' !  o'er  the  wave  there  burst  a  vision  bright 
Of  wood,  and  winding  stream,  and  easy 

shore. 

Then  by  the  lofty  light  which  shone  above, 
We  knew  at  last  our  voyage  sad  was  o'er, 
And  we  hard  by  the  haven  for  which  we 

strove. 

And  soon  all  past  the  need  to  wander 
more. 


48 


WHAT   THE   WATKRS   SAID. 


Then  as  our  craft  made  safely  on  the  strand, 
And  we  all  well  our  weary  brown  sail 

furled. 
We  gazed  as  strangers  might  at  that  fair 

laud, 

And  hardly  knew  if  it  might  be  our  world  ; 
Till  One  took  gently  every  weary  hand, 
And  led  us  on  to  where  still  waters  be, 
And  whispered  softly,  %o  !  it  hath  been 

planned 

That  thou  at  last  this  pleasant  place 
shouldst  see.' 


"And  as  those  dreaming,  so  awakened  we, 
And  looked  with  eyes  unhurt  on  that  fair 

sky, 
And  whispered,  hand  in  hand  and  eye  to  eye, 

1  'Tis  our  Atlantis,  risen  from  the  sea— 
'Tis  our  Atlantis,  from  the  bitter  sea  ! 
'Tis  our  Atlantis,  come  again,  oh,  friend, 
to  thee  and  me  !  " 


Lake 
Belle -Marie. 


LAKE 
BELLE-MARIE. 

T  AKE  BELLE-MARIE  lies  far 
f  away.  Beyond  the  forest  the 
mountains  are  white.  Beyond 
the  mountains  the  sky  rises  blue, 
high  up  into  the  infinite 
Unknown. 

I  do  not  know  where  the 
Singing  Mouse  lives.  No  man 
can  tell  what  journeys  it  may 
make  such  times  as  it  is  absent 
from  the  room  that  holds  the  pine 
table,  and  the  book,  and  the 
candle,  and  the  open  fire.  But 
last  night,  when  the  faint,  shrill 
sweetness  of  its  little  voice  grew 
apart  from  the  lonely  silence  of 
the  room,  and  I  turned  and  saw 
the  Singing  Mouse  sitting  on  the 
corner  of  the  book,  the  light  of 
the  candle  shining  in  pink 
through  its  tiny  paws,  almost  the 
first  word  it  said  was  of  the  far- 
off  Lake  of  Belle-Marie. 

1 '  Do  you  see  it  ?  ' '  asked  the 
Singing  Mouse. 

1 '  You  mean ' ' 

53 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

' '  The  moon  there  through  the 
window?  Do  you  see  the  moon, 
and  the  stars?  Do  you  know 
where  they  are  shining  to-night  ? 
Do  you  see  them,  there,  deep  in 
the  water  ?  Do  you  know  where 
that  is  ?  Do  you  know  the  water  ? 
I  know.  It  is  Lake  Belle-Marie." 

And  all  I  could  do  was  to  sit 
speechless.  For  the  fire  was 
gone,  and  the  wall  was  open,  and 
the  room  was  not  a  room.  The 
voice  of  the  Singing  Mouse,  shrill 
and  sweet,  droned  on  a  thousand 
miles  away  in  smallness,  but 
every  word  a  crystal  of  regret 
and  joy. 

' '  A  thousand  feet  deep,  or 
more,  or  bottomless,  lies  Lake 
Belle-Marie,  for  no  man  has  ever 
fathomed  it.  But  no  matter  how 
deep,  the  moon  lies  to-night  at 
the  bottom,  and  you  can  see  it 
shining  there,  deep  down  in  the 
blue.  The  stars  are  smaller,  so 
they  stay  up  and  sparkle  on  the 
surface.  The  forest  is  very  black 
to-night,  is  it  not?  and  the 

54 


LAKE   BELLE-MARIE. 

shadow  of  the  pines  on  the  point 
looks  like  a  mass  of  actual  sub 
stance.  Wait !  Did  you  see  that 
silvern  creature  leap  from  the 
quiet  water?  You  may  know 
the  shadow  is  but  a  shadow,  for 
you  can  see  the  chasing  ripples 
pass  through  it  and  break  it  up 
into  a  crinkled  fabric  of  the  night. 
' '  Do  you  see  the  pines  waving, 
away  up  there  in  their  tops,  and 
do  you  hear  them  talking  ?  They 
are  always  talking.  To-night 
they  are  saying:  'Hush,  Belle- 
Marie;  slumber,  Belle-Marie;  we 
will  watch,  we  will  watch, 
hush,  hush,  hush  !  Didn't  you 
ever  know  what  the  pines  said  ? 
They  wish  no  one  ever  to 
come  near  Lake  Belle- Marie. 
Well  for  you  that  you  only  sat 
and  looked  at  the  face  of  Belle 
Marie,  and  cast  no  line  nor  fired 
an  untimely  shot  around  her 
shores  !  The  pines  would  have 
been  angry  and  would  have 
crushed  you.  You  do  not  know 
how  they  live,  seeking  only  to 
55 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

keep  Belle-Marie  from  the  world, 
standing  close  and  sturdy 
together  and  threatening  any  who 
approach.  It  would  break  their 
hearts  to  have  her  hiding  place 
found  out.  You  do  not  know 
how  they  love  her.  The  pines 
are  old,  old,  old,  many  of  them, 
but  they  told  me  that  no  foot 
print  of  man  was  ever  seen  upon 
those  shores,  that  no  boat  ever 
rested  on  that  little  sea,  neither 
did  ever  a  treacherous  line 
wrinkle  even  the  smallest  portion 
of  its  smoothest  coves.  Believe 
me,  to  have  Belle-Marie  known 
would  break  the  hearts  of  the 
pines.  They  told  me  they  lived 
all  the  time,  only  that  they 
might  every  night  sing  Belle- 
Marie  to  sleep,  and  every  morning 
look  upon  her  face,  innocent, 
pure,  unknown  and  unknowing, 
therefore  good,  sincere  and  utterly 
trustworthy.  That  is  why  the 
pines  live.  That  is  what  they 
are  talking  about.  In  many 
places  I  know  the  hearts  of  the 
56 


BELLE-MARIE. 


pines  are  broken,  and  they  grieve 
continually.  That  is  because 
there  are  too  many  people.  In 
this  valley  the  pines  do  not 
grieve.  They  only  talk  among 
themselves.  In  the  morning  they 
will  wave  their  hands  quite  gaily 
and  will  say,  *  Waken,  waken, 
Belle-Marie  !  Sweet  is  the  day, 
sweet  is  the  day,  God  hath 
given,  given,  given  ! '  That  is 
what  the  pines  say  in  the  morning. 
' '  The  white  mountains  yonder 
are  very  old.  How  strong  and 
quiet  they  are,  and  how  sure  of 
themselves!  To  be  quiet  and 
strong,  one  needs  to  be  old,  for 
small  things  do  not  matter  then. 
Do  you  know  what  the  moun 
tains  think,  as  they  stand  there 
shoulder  to  shoulder — for  they 
live  only  to  shield  and  protect  the 
forest,  here  in  the  valley.  They 
told  me  they  were  thinking  of 
the  smallness  and  the  quickness 
of  the  days.  'Age  unto  age  ! '  is 
what  the  mountains  whisper. 


57 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 


unto  aeon  !  Strong,  strong, 
strong  is  Time  !  ' 

'  'And  yet  I  knew  these  mighty 
pillars  lived  only  to  shield  the 
forest  which  shielded  Belle-Marie. 
So  I  stood  upon  the  last  mountain 
and  looked  upon  the  great  blue 
of  the  sky,  and  there  again  I  saw 
the  face  of  Lake  Belle-Marie  ;  and 
the  circle  was  complete,  and  I 
sought  no  more,  for  I  knew  that 
from  the  abode  of  perfect,  unhurt 
nature  it  is  but  a  step  up  to  the 
perfect  peace  and  rest  of  the  land 
where  lives  that  Time  whose 
name  the  mountains  voice  in  awe. 

"And  now,  do  you  see  what  is 
;  happening  on  Lake  Belle-Marie  ? 

Through  the  cleft  in  the  forest 
the  pink  of  the  early  day  is 
showing,  and  light  shines  through 
the  spaces  of  the  pines.  And 
down  the  pebbles  of  the  beach, 
knee  deep  into  the  shining  flood, 
steps  a  noble  creature,  antlered, 
beautiful,  admirable.  Do  you  see 
him  drink,  and  do  you  see  him 
raise  his  head  and  look  about 
58 


LAKE   BELLE-MARIE. 

with  gentle  and  fearless  eye? 
This  creature  is  of  the  place,  and 
no  hand  must  harm  him. 

"Let  the  thin,  blue  smoke  die 
down.  Attempt  no  foot  further  on. 
Disturb  not  this  spot.  Return. 
But  before  you  go,  take  one  more 
look  upon  the  Lake  of  Belle- 
Marie  ! "  /^ 

So  again  I  gazed  upon  the  face 
of  the  lake,  which  seemed  inno 
cent,  and  sincere,  and  trust 
worthy,  and  deserving  of  the  pro 
tection  of  the  league  of  the  pines, 
and  the  army  of  the  mountains, 
and  the  canopy  of  the  unshamed 
sky.  And  then  the  voice  of  the 
Singing  Mouse,  employed  in  some 
song  whose  language  I  do  not  yet 
fully  understand,  faded  and  sank 
away,  and  even  as  it  passed  the 
walls  came  back  and  the  ashes 
lay  gray  upon  the  hearth. 


The  Skull  and 
the  Rose. 


THE  SKULL  AND 
THE  ROSE. 

'HpHE  Singing  Mouse  peeped  out 
from  the  hollow  orbit  of  the 
white  skull  which  lies  upon  the 
table  next  to  the  volume  of 
Shakspere.  It  reached  down  a 
tiny  pink  paw  and  touched  a 
leaf  of  the  brave  red  rose  which 
every  day  lies  before  the  skull. 
It  plucked  the  leaf,  which  made 
a  buckler  for  its  small,  throbbing 
breast.  It  spoke. 

4 'The  rose  is  bold  and  red," 
said  the  Singing  Mouse.  ' '  Blood 
is  red.  A  skull  is  white.  The 
rose  and  the  skull  love  one 
another.  They  understand.  We 
do  not  understand. 

"As  I  sat  by  the  skull  I  saw  a 
dream  of  the  past  go  by.  It  was 
as  you  see  it  now. 

"Do  you  see  the  waving 
grasses  of  the  valleys  ?  Do  you 
see  the  unmoving  front  of  the 
white  old  mountains?  Do  you 
see  the  red  roses  growing  down 
among  the  grasses  ? 
63 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

"It  is  peace  upon  the  land.  I 
can  see  one  who  has  seen  the 
lands.  He  smiles,  but  he  is  sad. 
He  crosses  the  wide  sea,  but 
cares  not.  He  travels  upon 
rails  of  iron,  and  he  smiles,  but 
still  is  sad,  because  he  thinks, 
and  he  who  thinks  must  weep. 
He  leaves  the  ship  and  the  iron 
rail,  and  his  road  is  narrower  and 
slower,  for  he  travels  now  by 
(4\  wheels  of  wood.  He  sees  the 

valleys,  and  his  smile  has  more 
I  of    peace.        His    trail    becomes 

narrower  yet.  He  goes  by  saddle, 
and  the  mountains  hem  him  in, 
but  now  he  smiles  the  more. 
Now  he  must  leave  even  the 
saddle,  and  the  trail  is  dim  and 
hard.  See,  the  trail  is  gone ! 
Here,  where  no  foot  has  trod, 
where  the  mountains  close  about, 
where  the  trees  whisper,  he  sits 
and  looks  about  him.  Do  you 
see  the  red  rose  on  his  breast  ? 
Always  the  rose  is  there.  Do 
you  see  him  look  up  at  the 
mountains,  about  him  at  the 
64 


THE  SKUIvL   AND   THE   ROSE. 

trees?  Do  you  see  him  lay  his 
head  upon  the  earth  ?  Do  you 
still  see  his  smile,  the  smile  which 
is  weary  and  yet  not  afraid  ?  Do 
you  hear  him  sigh  ?  And  what 
is  this  he  whispers,  here  at  the 
end  of  the  long  and  narrowing 
way — '  I  know  not  if  this  be  the 
end  or  the  beginning  ! '  Ah, 
what  does  this  man  mean  who 
whispers  to  himself  in  riddles? 

1 '  Look  !  It  is  the  time  of  war. 
There  is  music.  The  blood 
stings.  The  heart  leaps.  The 
eye  flames.  The  soul  exults. 
Flickering  of  light  on  steel,  the 
flash  of  servant  forces  used  to 
slay,  the  reverberant  growl  of 
engines  made  for  death,  the  pass 
ing  of  men  in  cloth  and  men  in 
blankets,  the  tramp  of  hurrying 
hoofs,  the  falling  of  men  who  die 
— can  you  see  this — can  you 
catch  the  horror,  the  exultation, 
the  joy  of  this,  I  say?  They 
come,  they  go;  they  run  their 
race,  and  it  is  all. 

"Here  are  those  who  ride 
65 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

against  those  who  slay.  Do  you 
know  this  one  who  rides  at  the 
head,  smiling,  swinging  his  sword 
well  and  smiling  all  the  time  ? 
It  is  he  who  said  in  the  mountains 
that  riddle  of  the  end  and  the 
beginning — who  knew  that  to 
the  heart  of  Nature  we  must 
come,  for  either  the  end  or  the 
beginning  of  a  happy  life.  Do 
you  see  upon  his  breast  the  red 
rose  ?  I  think  he  rides  to  battle 
with  the  rose,  knowing  what  fate 
will  come. 

"You  know  of  this  biting 
whistle  in  the  air — this  small 
thing  that  smites  unseen  ?  Do 
you  know  the  mowing  of  the 
death  scythes  ?  Hark  !  I  hear 
the  singing  of  this  unseen  thing. 
See !  he  of  the  rose  is  bitten.  He 
has  fallen.  Ai !  ai !  He  was  so 
brave  and  strong  !  His  horse  has 
gone.  He  is  alone.  The  grass 
here  was  so  green.  It  is  red. 
The  rose  upon  his  breast  is  red. 
His  face  is  white,  but  still  the 
smil.e  is  there,  and  now  it  is 

66 


THE  SKULL  AND  THE  ROSE. 

calmer  and  more  sweet,  though 
still  he  whispers,  4 1  know  not  if 
it  be  the  end  or  the  beginning  !  ' 

4  4  He  is  alone  with  Nature 
again.  The  heavens  weep  for 
him.  The  grasses  and  leaves 
begin  with  busy  fingers  to  cover 
him  up.  The  earth  pillows  him. 
He  sleeps.  It  is  all.  It  is  done. 
It  is  the  way  of  life.  It  is  the 
end  and  the  beginning. 

"He  loved  the  valley,  the 
mountain,  the  grass,  the  rose. 
Now,  since  he  cherished  the  rose 
so  well,  see,  the  rose  will  not 
leave  him.  Out  of  the  dust  it 
rises,  it  grows,  it  blooms.  Against 
his  lips  it  presses.  It  is  the 
beginning !  He  loved,  he  thought, 
he  knew.  He  is  not  dead.  He  is 
with  Nature.  It  is  but  the 
beginning ! 

' '  Let  the  rose  press  against 
his  lips  in  an  eternal,  pure  caress. 
There  is  no  end.  They  under 
stand.  We  do  not  yet  under 
stand." 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

The  pink  flame  of  the  unreal 
light  died  away.  The  pageant 
of  the  hills,  the  panorama  of  the 
battle  faded  and  were  gone.  The 
table  and  the  books  came  back. 
Wondering  at  these  words,  I 
scarce  could  tell  when  the  Sing 
ing  Mouse  went  away,  leaving 
me  staring  at  the  barren  walls 
and  at  the  white  skull  at  my 
hand. 

For  a  moment  it  nearly  seemed 
to  me  the  hollow  eyes  had  light 
and  spoke  to  me.  For  a  moment 
almost  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
rose  stirred  deep  down  among  its 
petals,  and  that  a  wider  perfume 
floated  out  upon  the  air. 


The  Man  of  the 
Mountain. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE 
MOUNTAIN. 

'QNCE  there  was  a  man," 
said  the  Singing  Mouse, 
' '  who  loved  to  go  into  the 
mountains.  He  would  go  alone, 
far  into  the  mountains,  and  climb 
up  to  the  tops  of  the  tallest  peaks. 
Nothing  pleased  him  so  much  as 
to  climb  to  the  top  of  some 
mountain  where  no  other  man 
had  ever  been.  No  one  ever 
knew  what  he  said  to  the  mount 
ains,  or  what  the  mountains  said 
to  him,  but  that  they  understood 
each  other  very  well  was  sure,  for 
he  could  go  among  the  mountains 
where  other  men  would  not  go. 
At  the  tops  of  the  high  mountains 
he  would  sit  and  look  out  over 
the  country  that  lay  beyond.  He 
would  not  say  what  he  saw, 
for  he  said  he  could  not  tell,  and 
that,  moreover,  the  people  would 
not  understand  it,  for  they  did 
not  know  the  way  the  mountains 
thought. 

One  time  this  man  climbed 
73 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

to  the  top  of  a  very  high 
mountain  peak  in  a  distant 
country.  This  peak  looked  out 
over  a  wide  land,  and  the  man 
knew  that  from  its  summit  he 
could  see  many  things. 

*  *  The  man  was  now  growing 
old,  so  when  he  got  to  the  top  of 
this  mountain  he  sat  down  to 
rest.  When  he  sat  down,  he  put 
his  chin  in  his  hand,  and  his  arm 
upon  his  knee  ;  and  so  he  looked 
out  over  the  land,  seeing  many 
things. 

1 '  The  sun  came  up,  but  the 
man  did  not  move,  but  sat  and 
thought.  The  moon  came,  but 
still  he  did  not  move.  He  only 
looked,  and  thought  and  smiled. 

' '  After  many  days  it  was  seen 
that  this  man  would  not  come 
down  from  the  mountain.  The 
mountain  made  him  part  of  itself, 
and  turned  him  into  stone,  as  he 
sat  there,  with  his  chin  in  his 
hand.  He  is  there  today,  look 
ing  out  over  many  things.  He 
never  moves,  for  he  is  now  of 

74 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   MOUNTAIN. 

stone.  I  have  seen  that  place 
myself.  Once  I  thought  I  heard 
this  man  whisper  of  the  things  he 
saw.  He  sits  there  today." 


At  The  Place 
of  the  Oaks. 


AT  THE  PLACE 
OF  THE  OAKS. 

you  know  what  the  oak 
says  ?  ' '  said  the  Singing 
Mouse,  as  it  sat  upon  my  knee. 
It  had  needed  to  nibble  again  at 
my  fingers  before  it  could  waken 
me  from  the  dream  into  which 
I  had  fallen,  gazing  at  the 
fading  fire.  "Do  you  know 
what  the  oak  says  ?  "  it  repeated. 
* '  Do  you  hear  it  ?  Do  you  hear 
the  talking  of  the  leaves? 

' '  I  know  what  the  oak  says, ' ' 
said  the  Singing  Mouse.  "  When 
the  wind  is  soft,  the  oak  says: 
'Peace!  Peace!'  When  the 
breeze  is  sharp  it  sighs  and  says : 
4  Pity  !  Pity  !  Pity  ! '  And  when 
the  storm  has  fallen,  the  oak  sobs 
and  cries  :  '  Woe  !  Woe  !  Woe  ! ' 

4 '  Do  you  see  the  oaks  ? ' '  asked 
the  Singing  Mouse.  4 '  Do  you 
sec  the  little  lake  ?  Do  you  know 
this  place  of  the  oaks?  Behold 
it  now!  "  It  waved  a  tiny  hand. 

I  gazed  at  the  naked,  cheerless 
wall,  seamed  and  rent  with 

79 


THE  SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 


cracks  along  its  sallow  width. 
And  as  I  gazed  the  seams  anc 
scars  blended  and  composed  intc 
the  lines  of  a  map  of  a  noble 
country.  And  as  I  gazed  more 
intently  the  map  took  on  color, 
and  narrowed  its  semblance  tc 
that  of  a  certain  region.  And 
I  gazed  yet  more  eagerly  the 
map  faded  quite  away,  and  there 
lay  in  its  stead  the  smiling  fac 
of  an  enchanted  land. 

There  was  the  little  silver  lake, 
rippling  on  its  shore  of  rushes. 
Around  rose  the  long  curved  hills, 
swelling  back  from  the  shore. 
The  baby  river  babbled  on  at  the 
mouth  of  the  lake,  kissing  its 
mother  a  continual  farewell. 
The  small  springs  tinkled  metal 
lically  cold  into  the  silver  of  the 
lake.  The  tender  green  of  the 
gentle  glades  rolled  softly  back, 
dividing  the  two  hills  in  peaceful 
separation.  And  there  were  the 
oaks.  At  the  water's  edge,  near 
the  lesser  spring,  the  wild  apple 
trees  twisted,  but  upon  the  hills 
80 


\^A 

§) 
I 


THE   PLACE   OF   THE   OAKS. 

over  the  great  glades  stood 
reserved,  mysterious  oaks, 

11,  strong  and  grand. 

One  oak,  a  mighty  one,  now 
resolved  itself  more  prominently 
forth.  Did  I  not  know  it  well  ? 
Could  one  forget  the  tortured  but 
.oble  soul  of  this  oak?  Could 
>ne  forget  the  strong  arm  of 

imfort  it  extended  over  this 
most  precious  spot  of  all  the 
glade?  One  must  suffer  before 
he  can  comfort.  The  oak  had 
suffered,  somewhere.  We  do  not 
know  all  things.  But  over  this 
spot  the  great  tree  reached  out 
sheltering  hands,  and  certainly 
from  its  hands  dropped  benedic 
tions  plenteously  down. 

Under  the  arm  of  the  oak  I 
saw  a  tiny  house  of  white — neat, 
well-ordered,  full  of  cheerfulness. 
Through  the  wall  of  canvas — for 
it  now  seemed  to  be  after  dusk- 
there  shone  a  faint  pink  gleam 
of  light,  the  soul  of  the  white 
house,  its  pure  spirit  of 
content.  As  it  shone,  it  scarce 

81 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

seemed  lit  by  mortal  hand. 
Near  the  small  house  of  white, 
and  under  the  oak's  protecting 
arm,  there  burned  a  little  flame, 
of  small  compass  save  in  the  vast 
shadows  it  set  dancing  among 
the  trees.  Those  who  built  this 
fire  here,  so  many  times,  so  many 
years,  each  time  first  craved 
pardon  of  the  green  grass  of  that 
happy  glade,  for  they  would  not 
harm  the  grass.  But  the  grass 
said  yea  to  all  they  asked,  this 
was  sure,  for  each  year  the  tiny 
hearth  spot  was  greener  than  any 
other  spot,  because  it  remembered 
what  the  fire  had  said  and  done. 
And  each  year  the  oak  dropped 
down  food  enough  for  the  little 
fire.  The  oak  took  pay  in  the 
vast  shadows  the  fire  made  for  it. 
That  was  the  way  the  oak  saw 
the  spirits  of  the  Past,  and  when 
it  saw  them  it  sighed  ;  but  still 
it  welcomed  the  shadows  of  the 
Past.  So  the  fire,  and  the  grass, 
and  the  oak,  and  the  shadows  of 
the  Past  were  friends,  and  each 
82 


AT  THE  PLACE  OF  THE  OAKS. 

year  they  met  here.  It  had  been 
thus  for  many  years.  Each  year, 
for  many  years,  the  same  hand 
had  lit  the  little  fire,  in  the  same 
place,  and  so  given  back  to  the 
oak  its  Past.  Now,  the  Past  is  a 
very  sad  but  tender  thing. 

Near  by  the  little  fire  I  saw  a 
small  table  formed  of  straight- 
laid  boughs,  and  at  either  side  of 
this  were  seats  made  cunningly 
in  the  workshop  of  the  woods. 
There  were  two  forms  at  this 
small  table.  I  saw  them  both. 
One  was  gray  and  bowed  some 
what,  stooped  as  the  oaks  are, 
silvered  as  the  oaks  are  in  the 
winter  days.  The  other  was 
younger  and  more  erect.  Once 
the  younger  looked  to  the 
older  for  counsel,  but  now  it 
seemed  to  me  the  bowed  figure 
turned  to  the  one  that  had 
become  more  strong. 

I  saw  the  savory  vapors  rise. 

Even,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  could 

note  a  faint,  clear  odor  of  innocent 

potency.      I  saw  the  table  laid, 

83 


THE  SINGING  MOUSE   STORIES. 

not  with   gleam   of  snow  and 
silver,   but  with  plain  vessels 
which,  nevertheless,  seemed  now 
to  have  a  radiance  of  their  own. 
I   knew    all    this.       It   was   as 
though  there  actually  lay  at  hand 
these  pleasant  scenes,  as  though 
there  actually  arose  the   appeal 
ing  fragrance  of  the  evening  meal. 
Now    as    I    looked,    the   gray 
figure    bowed    its   head,   there, 
under  the  arm   of  the  oak,  and 
asked  on  the  humble  board  the 
blessing   of  the  God  who  made 
the  oak,   and  gave  the  fire  and 
spread  the  pleasant  waters  on  the 
land.       Every    meal-time,    every 
year,  for  many  years,  it  had  been 
thus.     Ever,  the  oak  knew,  the 
gray  figure  would  first  bow  and 
ask  the  blessing   of  God.     And 
each   time   at  the  close  the  oak 
with  rustling  leaves  pronounced 
distinct  Amen!       Let   those  jest 
who   will.      I   do   not   know.     I 
think  perhaps  the  oak  knows,  or 
it  would  not  thus  for  years  have 
whispered  reverently  its  distinct 
84 


AT  THE  PLACE  OF  THE  OAKS. 

Amen!  I  will  not  scoff.  It  is 
perhaps  we  who  are  ignorant. 
We  do  not  know  all  things. 

I  ask  not  what  nor  who  these 
two  were  who  had  come  each 
year  to  this  place  of  the  oaks,  but 
surely  they  were  friends.  In 
shadow,  I  could  hear  them  talk. 
In  shadow,  I  could  see  them 
smile. 

These  friends  sat  by  the  little 
fire  a  time  before  they  went  to  rest 
in  the  tiny  house  of  white.  After 
they  had  gone,  the  fire  did 
strange  things.  All  men  know 
that,  though  you  see  the  fire 
burned  down,  when  you  go  into 
the  tent  you  will  some  time  in  the 
night  see  the  walls  lit  up  by  a 
sudden  flash  or  so,  now  and  then, 
from  the  fire  which  was  thought 
to  be  dead.  That  is  the  business 
of  the  fire,  and  of  the  oaks  and  of 
the  shadows.  I  know  that  the 
shadows  dance  strangely,  and 
hover  and  come  near  at  hand,  in 
those  late  hours  of  the  night ;  but 
what  then  occurs  I  do  not  know. 

85 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

These  two  friends  never 
questioned  this.  They  knew  it 
was  the  secret  of  the  night,  and 
gave  the  oak  its  own  request,  in 
pay  for  its  protection  and  consent. 
They  gave  the  oak  its  union  with 
the  sacred  Past. 

In  the  night  I  have  heard  the 
oak  sob.  Yet  in  the  morning, 
when  the  sun  was  silvering  the 
wake  of  all  the  leaping  fishes,  the 
oak  was  always  gentle,  and  it 
said,  "Wake,  wake  !  God  is  wise. 
Waken,  waken  !  God  is  good." 
***** 

As  pure  shining  beads  upon  a 
thread  of  gold  I  saw  this  small, 
dear  picture,  reiterant  and 
unchanged,  year  after  yearf 
always  with  the  same  calm  and 
pure  surroundings.  Only  as  year 
added  itself  to  year,  slipping 
forward  on  the  golden  string,  I 
saw  the  gray  figure  grow  more 
gray,  more  bowed,  more  feeble. 
Alas !  it  seemed  to  me  I  saw  the 
silver  coming  upon  the  head  of 
the  younger  man,  and  his  eyes 

86 


AT  THE  PLACE  OF  THE  OAKS. 

grew  weary,  as  one  who  looks  at 
the  earth  too  closely  (which  it  is 
not  wise  to  do).  Yet  the  years 
came,  to  the  oaks  and  to  the 
grasses  and  to  the  friends. 

The  grass  dies  every  year,  "but 
it  is  born  again.  The  oak  dies  in 
centuries,  but  it  is  born  again. 
Man  dies  in  three  score  years  and 
ten,  but  he,  too,  is  born  again. 

As  I  looked,  I  could  see  the 
passing  of  the  years.  In  all  but 
the  unaltering  fire  of  friendship  I 
could  see  change  creeping  on. 
Grayer,  grayer,  more  bent,  more 
feeble  —  is  it  not  so,  Singing 
Mouse  ?  And  now,  this  time, 
what  was  this  gentle  warning 
that  the  oak  tried  to  whisper 
softly  down  ?  Perhaps  the  grayer 
friend  heard  it,  as  he  sat  musing 
by  the  fire.  He  rose  and  looked 
about  him,  as  one  who  had 
dreamed  and  was  content.  He 
looked  up  at  the  solemn  stars 
unafraid,  and  so  murmured  to 
himself.  ' '  Day  unto  day  uttereth 
speech,"  he  said;  " Night  unto 
87 


THK  SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

night  showeth   knowledge." 
Day  unto  day,  Singing  Mouse. 

Day  unto  day. 

#         *         *         *         •* 

Woe   is    me,    Singing   Mouse, 
and  these  are  bitter  tears  for  that 
which  you  have  shown !     I  see  it 
all  again,  the  oaks,  the  glade,  the 
tiny    house   of   white,    the  small 
pleasant  fire.       Here  again  is  the 
little    table,     and    here    is    the 
evening  meal.       The  table  is  still 
spread  for  two.     A  double  portion 
is  served  as  was  wont  before.   Yet 
why  ?      For  all  is   not  the  same. 
At  this  table  there  is  but  one  form 
now.    The  younger  man  is  there, 
although  now  he  has  grown  gray 
and  stooped.      Year   unto   year, 
day   unto    day,    the   beads   have 
slipped  along  the  string.       Once 
young,    now   old,    he   keeps   the 
camp  alone! 

But  is  he  then  alone  ?  Hush  ! 
The  squirrels  have  grown  still,  and 
even  the  oak  is  silent.  What  is 
that  opposite,  across  the  table,  at 
the  seat  long  years  held  only  by 

88 


AT    THE   PLACE   OF   THE    OAKS. 

the  elder  of  these  two  ?  Tell  me, 
Singing  Mouse,  is  it  not  true  that 
I  see  there,  sitting  as  of  old  at  the 
table,  the  same  sturdy  form,  the 
same  simple,  innocent  and 
believing  face?  It  is  the  gray 
ghost  of  one  grown  gray  in  good 
ness.  It  is  the  shadow  of  a 
shadow,  the  apparition  of  a  soul! 

The  one  at  the  table  pauses,  as 
was  the  wont  before  the  beginning 
of  a  meal.  He  looks  across  the 
table  to  the  shadow,  as  if  the 
shadow  were  his  friend.  The 
shadow  bows  its  head.  The  liv 
ing  man  bows  also  his  head  at 
the  board.  The  shadow  moves 
its  lips.  Doubt  not  those  words 
are  heard  this  day. 

See,  the  sun  rises  through  the 
trees.  The  glorious  day  sets  on 
once  more.  Doubt  not,  fear  not, 
sorrow  not,  ye  two.  Bow  the 
head  still,  ye  two,  and  let  not  my 
picture  perish.  Whisper  again 
the  benediction  of  the  years,  and 
89 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

let   me   hear    once    more    the 
murmur  of  the  oak's  Amen! 


The  Birth  of 
the  Hours. 


THE  BIRTH  OF 
THE  HOURS. 

"T)O  you  know  the  story  of  the 
wedding  of  the  times  ?  ' '  said 
the  Singing  Mouse.  "  You  know 
all  life  is  a  wedding.  The  flowers 
love,  and  the  grasses,  and  the 
trees;  and  the  circle  of  the 
wedding  ring  is  the  circle  of  life 
and  the  sign  of  eternity.  Death 
and  life,  not  life  and  then  death, 
is  the  order  and  the  law. 

4 '  The  hours  are  born  of  parents, 
as  are  the  flowers.  The  hours  of 
the  day  are  born  of  the  wedding 
of  Night  and  Morning.  It  is  the 
way  of  Life.  Come  with  me. ' ' 

So  with  the  Singing  Mouse  I 
went  into  a  place  where  I  was  once 
long  before.  I  could  see  it  very 
well.  It  was  in  the  deep  woods, 
far  away.  Near  by  there  were 
tall,  sweet  grasses.  I  could  hear 
the  faint  tinkle  of  a  falling  stream. 
Other  than  that,  it  was  silent  in 
the  deep  woods.  Overhead  the 
sky  was  clear  and  filled  with 
stars.  The  stars  trembled  and 

95 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

twinkled  and  shone  radiantly  fair. 
So  now  all  at  once  I  knew  they 
were  the  jewels  on  the  veil  of 
Night.  And  the  far  shadows 
were  the  drapery  of  the  Night, 
and  the  greater  light  of  the 
jj  heavens  was  the  star  upon  her 
coronal. 

When  I  first  looked  forth,  the 
Night  was  a  babe,  but  as  I  gazed 
it  grew.     The    Night   is   full   of 
change  and  charm.       Those  who 
I  I  live  within  the  walls  do  not  see 

these  things.  When  I  saw  them, 
I  could  not  sleep,  for  the  Night 
in  all  her  changes  seemed  to 
speak. 

The  Night  grew  older,  drawing 
about  her  more  ornate  garb  of 
witchery.  Across  her  bosom  fell 
a  wondrous  tissue,  trembling 
with  exuberance  of  unprismed 
light.  These  were  the  gems  in 
thousands  of  the  skies,  all  fair 
against  the  blackness  of  the  robes 
of  Night,  and  I  knew  that  the 
blackness  of  the  one  was  lovely 
as  the  radiance  of  the  other.  Nor 


THE   BIRTH   OF   THE   HOURS. 

could  one  separate  one  from  the 
other,  for  there  arose  a  thin  mist 
of  light,  so  that  one  saw  form  or 
features  only  dimly,  as  through  a 
cloth  of  silver  lace,  such  as  the 
spiders  weave  upon  a  morning. 

The  Night  grew  on,  changing 
at  every  moment,  for  change  is 
the  law.  There  were  small 
frowns  of  clouds  which  were 
replaced  by  smiles  of  light. 
Did  never  you  hear  the  laughter 
of  the  Night?  It  is  a  strange 
thing.  Not  all  men  have  heard 
it.  The  Singing  Mouse  told  me 
of  this. 

Now  as  I  lay  and  looked  at 
this  glorious  apparition,  there 
came  still  another  change,  and 
one  most  wonderful.  In  the 
heart  of  the  Night  there  came  a 
tremulous  exultation.  Upon  the 
face  of  the  Night  appeared  a 
roseate  tinge  of  joyous  perturba 
tion.  So  then  I  knew  the  lover 
of  the  Night  was  coming,  and 
knew,  too,  whence  we  have  derived 
the  signs  of  love  as  among 

97 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

human  beings  we  see  it  indicated. 
I  saw  the  flush  upon  the  cheek 
of  Night  flame  slow  and  faintly 
up,  until  it  touched  her  very 
forehead.  This  is  the  way  of 
Love.  But  the  Night  went  on, 
for  this  is  the  way  of  Life.  Love 
and  Life,  these  are  ever  and 
forever.  We  mock  at  them  and 
understand  them  not,  but  they 
are  ever  and  forever. 

And  now  the  Night,  I  know 
not  whether  startled  or  in  plan, 
whether  ashamed  of  her  dark 
garb,  or  unconscious  of  it  in  the 
proud  sureness  of  her  beauty, 
dropped  loose  a  portion  of  the 
shadows  of  her  robe,  and  stood 
forth  radiant,  clad  with  the 
dazzling  beauty  of  her  stars. 
Then  she  raised  her  hand  and 
laid  it  on  her  heart. 

And  so  the  Morning  came  and 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  on  the  brow.  So  here  was 
Love  again.  And  of  this  wedding 
there  were  born  the  hours. 


The  Teai 
and  the  Smile, 


THE  TEAR 
AND  THE  SMILE. 

Singing  Mouse  came  and 
sat  near  by.  Undoubtedly 
the  room  was  dingy  to  the  last 
degree.  The  dust  lay  thick  upon 
the  corner  of  the  table.  It  crusted 
the  window  ledge  and  hung  upon 
the  sallow  wall.  What  was  the 
use,  things  being  as  they  were,  to 
disturb  the  dust  ?  Let  it  lie  in  all 
its  bitterness.  And  let  the 
charred  ends  of  the  fagots  roll 
out  upon  the  floor.  And  let  the 
fire  die  down  to  ashes.  Dust  to 
dust.  Ashes  to  ashes.  It  was 
very  fit. 

But  the  Singing  Mouse  came 
and  sat  near  by.  I  could  hear 
it  patter  among  the  dead  leaves  of 
the  flowers  that  lay  upon  the 
table.  I  turned  my  head  and  saw 
it  sitting  close  by  my  fallen  hand. 
Its  tiny  paws  were  waving.  I 
could  see  its  breast,  for  which  a 
rose  leaf  would  have  been  a  giant 
buckler,  pulsing  and  beating 
above  its  throbbing  heart.  Its 
103 


THE  SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

eyes  were  shining.  ...  A  rhythm 
came  into  the  swing  of  the  pink- 
tinted  paws.  And  then,  so  high 
and  thin  and  sweet  that  at  first  I 
looked  above  to  trace  the  sound, 
there  came  the  singing  of  the 
Singing  Mouse.  .  .  .  Dreams  fell 
upon  my  eyes. 

I  heard  that  sweet  sound  of  the 
woods,  the  tinkle  of  falling  water, 
which  is  so  full  of  change,  now 
keen,  clear  and  metallically 
musical,  now  soft,  slurred  and  full 
of  sleep.  I  could  not  see  the  little 
stream,  but  knew  it  ran  down  there 
beneath  the  talking  pines.  But 
very  well  one  could  see  the  hill 
where  the  small  white  house  had 
stood  among  the  trees.  .  The 
white  house  was  gone  now, 
though  the  grass  pressed  down  by 
the  blankets  had  not  yet  fully 
arisen.  The  smoke  of  the  camp 
fire  still  wavered  up.  It  followed 
one,  with  long,  out-reaching  arms 
of  vapor.  With  its  fingers  it 
beckoned  and  begged  for  its  old 
companions  yet  awhile.  Did 
104 


THE   TEAR    AND    THE    SMILE. 


never  one  look  back  at  the  smoke 
of  the  camp  fire  that  he  leaves  ? 
Always,  the  heart  of  the  fire  will 
stir  at  this  time  of  parting.  A 
little  blaze  will  burst  out  among 
the  embers,  and  the  smoke  will 
reach  out  and  beckon  one  to  stay. 
It  is  very  hard  to  leave  such  a 
fire. 

Certainly  there  must  be  strange 
things,  of  which  we  know  but 
little.  Surely  there  was  a  figure 
in  the  wreath  of  smoke.  I  could 
see  the  drapery  shape  itself  about 
a  form.  I  could  see  the  out 
stretched  arms.  I  could  see  the 
face,  the  gravely  smiling  lips. 

' '  There  are  many  things  in  the 
land  of  the  Singing  Mouse," 
murmured  my  small  magician. 
"It  is  only  there  that  one  sees 
clearly."  So  I  looked  and 
listened  to  the  figure  which  was 
in  the  smoke  of  the  little  fire. 

"Believe  me,"  said  the  figure 

in  the  smoke,  '  *  the  ashes  and  the 

dust  are  not  so  bitter  as  you  think 

them.      The  tears  rain  on  them, 

105 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

and  they  go  back  into  the  earth 
and  are  born  again.  Look  around 
you,  as  here  you  may  look, 
unhindered  by  any  confining 
walls.  Do  you  not  see  the  flowers 
smiling  bravely?  Yet  every 
blossom  is  a  tear.  Do  you  not 
see  the  strong  forest  trees?  Yet 
every  tree  grows  on  the  ashes  of 
the  past.  We  know  not  what 
you  mean  by  Grief.  With  us, 
all  things  point  to  Hope.  I  have 
swum  above  a  thousand  forests. 
Ask  this  forest,  the  youngest  of 
them  all,  whether  it  whispers  of 
dread  and  of  grief.  Rather  it 
whispers  of  wonder  and  of  joy. 
Come  to  it,  and  it  may  tell  you  of 
its  comfort.  Turn  your  eyes  up 
to  the  blue  sky,  and  put  your 
hands  out  upon  this  grass,  which 
is  but  dust  renewed,  and  at  your 
eyes  and  at  your  fingers 
you  shall  drink  peace  and 
knowledge.  The  shape  of  a 
room  and  of  a  grave  is  square  and 
cruel,  but  the  shape  of  the  earth 
and  of  the  great  sky  is  that  of 

106 


THE   TEAR   AND   THE   SMILE. 

the  perpetual  circle,  and  it  is 
kind.  Come  to  these.  Come  to 
me.  I  will  wave  my  hands 
above  you,  and  you  shall  sleep. 
When  you  awaken  the  flowers 
will  be  blooming ;  and  upon  the 
lid  of  each  you  shall  see  the  tear, 
but  upon  the  lips  of  each  shall 
rest  a  smile." 

So  now  the  figure  in  the  smoke 
waved,  and  nodded,  and  smiled 
and  beckoned,  until  I  said  to  the 
Singing  Mouse  it  seemed  scarce 
like  that  we  ordinarily  know. 

"Lie  down  and  sleep,"  said 
the  Singing  Mouse. 

So  I  lay  down  and  slept.  And 
when  I  awoke  there  were  some 
small  flowers  not  far  away ;  and 
when  I  looked  I  saw  it  was  as 
had  been  said.  Each  flower  had 
a  tiny  tear  hidden  away  beneath 
its  lid,  but  upon  the  lips  of  each 
there  rested  a  brave  smile.  And 
from  among  the  flowers  there 
arose  a  sweet  odor. 

"This,"  said  the  Singing 
Mouse,  when  it  saw  me  note  the 
107 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

fragrance,  *  '  this  is  a  Memory. 
It  belongs  to  you.  See  how  soft 
and  sweet  it  is." 


How  the  Mountains 
Ate  up  the  Plains. 


How  THE  MOUNTAINS 
ATE  UP  THE  PLAINS. 

"  T  ONCE  knew  a  man,"  said 
the  Singing  Mouse,  '  *  who 
had  seen  the  mountains  in  the 
winter  time,  when  they  were 
covered  deep  in  snow.  It  is  the 
belief  of  most  men  that  the 
mountains  are  then  asleep,  but 
this  man  said  that  they  are  not 
asleep,  but  that  they  have  only 
drawn  over  their  heads  the  white 
council-robes,  for  then  they  are 
sitting  in  council.  Now  the 
mountains  are  very  old  and  wise. 
This  man  told  me  he  heard 
strange  sounds  coming  from 
under  the  council-robes  of  the 
mountains  then,  voices  not 
distinctly  heard,  but  wonderful 
and  strong  and  of  a  sort  to  make 
one  fear. 

' '  This  man  told  me  that  once 
he  heard  the  mountains  tell  of  a 
time  when  they  ate  up  the  plains. 
'  Once  man  was  a  dweller  of  the 
plains/  sang  the  mountains  in  a 
great  song ;  '  there  man  dug  and 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

strove.  Never  he  lifted  up  the 
eye,  but  at  his  feet,  at  his  feet, 
there  he  still  gazed  down.  The 
clouds  bore  not  up  his  gaze, 
neither  did  the  hills  comfort  him. 
Things  false,  of  no  worth,  these 
man  sought  and  prized.  Though 
we  whispered  to  him,  still  he 
made  deaf  his  ear.  Then  we 
the  mountains,  we  the  strong, 
the  just,  the  wise,  we  arose,  we 
set  together  our  shoulders  and  so 
marched  on.  Thus  we  ate  up 
the  plain.  Now  we  stand  where 
once  man  was,  for  man  lifted  not 
up  his  eyes.  Therefore,  now  let 
man  look  up,  let  him  not  make 
small  his  gaze.  We  the  strong, 
we  the  just,  the  wise,  we  shall 
eat  up  the  plain.  For  on  our  brows 
sits  the  light,  about  our  heads  is 
the  calm.  That  which  is  high 
shall  in  the  days  prevail.  We 
the  strong,  the  just,  the  wise, 
this  we  have  said  !  ' 

1  'This   man  told  me   that    he 
could  not  hear  all  the  song  that 
the   mountains   chanted,   nor   all 
u4 


MOUNTAINS    ATE   THE    PLAINS. 


they  whispered  among  them 
selves.  But  he  thought  they 
said  that  they  had  swallowed  up 
and  consumed  one  race  of  beings 
who  became  fixed  only  upon  the 
winning  of  what  they  called 
wealth,  and  had  crushed  out  this 
wealth  and  burned  up  their 
precious  things.  This  may  be 
true,  for  today  men  visit  the 
mountains  to  dig  there  for  wealth, 
and  this  which  they  call  gold  is 
found  much  scattered,  as  though 
it  had  been  crumbled  and  burned 
and  blown  wide  over  the  earth 
upon  the  four  winds.  For  these 
reasons  this  man  thought  that 
the  mountains  had  once  eaten  up 
the  plains,  and  that  perhaps  at 
some  time  they  might  do  this 
again/' 


The  Beast 
Terrible. 


THE  BEAST 
TERRIBLE. 

little  room  was  resplendent 
one  night  with  a  fire  which 
flamed  .and  flickered  gloriously. 
It  set  in  motion  many  shadows 
which  had  their  home  in  the 
corners  of  the  walls,  and  bade 
them  cease  their  sullenness  and 
come  forth  to  dance  in  the  riot  of 
the  hour.  And  so  each  shadow 
found  its  partner  in  a  ray  of  fire 
light,  and  there  they  danced. 
They  danced  about  the  tangled 
front  of  the  big  bison's  head 
which  hung  upon  the  wall. 
They  crossed  the  grinning  skull 
of  the  gray  wolf.  They  softened 
the  eyes  of  the  antelope's  head, 
and  made  dark  lines  behind  the 
long-tined  antlers  of  the  elk  and 
of  the  deer.  They  brought  forth 
to  view  in  alternate  eclipse  and 
definition  the  great,  grim  bear 
head  which  hung  above  the 
mantel.  Every  trophy  gathered  in 
years  of  the  chase,  once  perhaps 
prized,  now  perhaps  forgotten, 
119 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

was  brought  into  evidence,  nor 
could  one  escape  noting  each  one, 
and  giving  to  each,  for  this  one 
night  more,  the  story  which 
belonged  to  it.  I  sat  and  looked 
upon  them  all,  and  so  there 
passed  a  panorama  of  the  years. 
"  There,"  thought  I,  "is  the 
stag  which  once  fell  far  in  the 
pine  woods  of  the  North.  This 
antelope  takes  me  back  to  the 
hard,  white  plains.  These  huge 
antlers  could  grow  only  amid  the 
forests  of  the  Rockies.  That 
wolf — how  many  of  the  hounds 
he  mangled,  I  remember ;  and 
the  giant  bear,  it  was  a  good 
fight  he  made,  perhaps  danger 
ous,  had  the  old  rifle  there  been 
less  sure.  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  I 
could  recall  each  incident.  Of 
course,  they  all  were  thrilling, 
exciting,  delightful,  glorious,  all 
those  things.  Of  course,  the 
heart  must  have  leaped  in  those 
days.  The  blood  must  have 
surged,  in  those  moments.  The 
pulse  must  have  grown  hard,  the 


THE   BEAST   TERRIBLE. 

mouth  mast  have  been  dry  with 
the  ardor  of  the  chase,  at  those 
times.  But  now?  But  why? 
Did  the  heart  leap  tonight,  did 
the  veins  thrill  with  the  rush  of 
the  blood,  tumultuous  in  the  joy 
of  stimulus  or  danger  ?  Why 
did  not  the  old  eagerness  come 
back  ?  Which  of  these  trophies 
was  the  one  to  bring  this  back 
again  ?  To  which  of  these  grim, 
silent  heads  belonged  the  keenest 
story?" 

' '  I  know, ' '  said  the  Singing 
Mouse,  which  unknown  to  me 
had  come  and  placed  itself  upon 
the  table.  "I  know."  And  it 
climbed  upon  my  arm  which  lay 
across  the  table.  The  fire  shone 
fair  upon  its  little  form,  so  that  in 
silhouette  its  outline  was  delicate 
and  keen  as  an  image  cut  from 
the  fiery  heart  of  a  noble  opal 
stone. 

' '  And  what  is  it  that  you 
know?"  I  asked.  "  Small 
magician,  tell  me  what  it  is  you 
know  tonight." 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE)   STORIES. 

The  Singing  Mouse  balanced 
and  moved  itself  in  harmony  with 
the  beat  of  the  fire's  rays.  I 
looked  at  it  so  closely  that  a  dream 
came  upon  my  eyes,  so  that  the 
voice  of  the  Singing  Mouse 
sounded  far  away  and  faint, 
though  it  was  still  clear  and 
resonant  in  its  own  peculiar  way 
and  very  fine  and  sweet. 

4  4 1  will  tell  you  which  trophy 
you  most  prize,"  it  said.  "  I 
will  show  you  your  Iliad  of  the 
chase.  Do  you  not  remember,  do 
you  not  see  this,  the  most  eventful 
hunt  of  all  your  life  ?  ' ' 

And  so  I  gazed  where  the 
Singing  Mouse  pointed,  quite 
beyond  the  dusty  walls,  and  there 
I  saw  as  it  had  said.  I  heard 
not  the  thunder  of  the  hoofs  of 
buffalo,  nor  the  faint  crack  of 
twig  beneath  the  panther's  foot. 
I  saw  not  the  lurching  gallop  of 
the  long-jawed  Wolf,  nor  the  high, 
elastic  bounding  of  the  deer. 
The  level  swinging  speed  of  the 
antelope,  the  slinking  of  the  lynx, 


THE   BEAST   TERRIBLE. 

the  crashing  flight  of  the  wapiti — 
no,  it  was  none  of  these  that  came 
to  mind  ;  nor  did  the  mountains, 
nor  the  plains,  nor  the  wilder 
ness  of  the  pines.  But  when 
the  Singing  Mouse  whispered, 
"Do  you  see?"  I  murmured  in 
reply,  "  I  see  it  all  again." 

I  saw  the  small,  low  hills,  well 
covered  with  short  oaks  and 
hazel  bushes,  which  rolled  on 
away  from  the  village,  far  out, 
almost  to  the  Delectable  mount 
ains,  which  are  well  known  to 
be  upon  the  edge  of  the  world. 
Through  these  low  hills  a  wind 
ing  road  led  on,  a  road  whose  end 
no  man  had  ever  reached,  but 
which  went  to  places  where,  no 
doubt,  many  wonders  were  — 
perhaps  even  to  the  Delectable 
mountains;  for  so  a  wise  man 
once  had  said,  his  words 
hearkened  to  with  awe.  This 
was  a  pleasant  road,  lined 
with  brave  sumachs,  with  bushes 
of  the  wild  blackberry,  and  with 
small  hazel  trees  which  soon 
123 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

would  offer  fruit  for  the  regular 
harvest  of  the  fall,  this  same  to 
be  spread  for  drying  on  the  wood 
shed  roof.  It  was  perhaps  wise 
curiosity  as  to  the  crop  of  nuts 
which  had  brought  thus  far  from 
home  these  two  figures — an 
enormous  distance,  perhaps  at 
least  a  mile  beyond  what  hereto 
fore  had  been  the  utmost  limit  of 
their  wanderings.  It  was  not, 
perhaps,  safe  to  venture  so  far. 
There  were  known  to  be  strange 
creatures  in  these  woods,  one 
knew  not  what.  It  was  therefore 
well  that  the  younger  boy  should 
clasp  tightly  the  hand  of  the 
older,  him  who  bore  with  such 
confidence  the  bow  and  arrows, 
potent  weapons  of  those  days 
gone  by ! 

It  was  half  with  fear  and  half 
with  curiosity  that  these  two 
wandered  on,  along  this 
mysterious  road,  through  this 
wild  and  unknown  wilderness, 
so  far  from  any  habitation 
of  mankind.  The  zeal  of 
124 


THE   BEAST  TERRIBLE. 

the  explorer  held  them  fast. 
They  scarce  dared  fare  further 
on,  but  yet  would  not  turn  back. 
The  noises  of  the  woods  thrilled 
them.  The  sudden  clanging 
note  of  the  jay  near  by  caused 
them  to  stop,  heart  in  mouth  for 
the  moment.  Strange  rustlings  in 
the  leaves  made  them  cross  the 
road,  and  step  more  quickly.  Yet 
the  cawing  of  a  crow  across  the 
woods  seemed  friendly,  and  a 
small  brown  bird  which  hopped 
ahead  along  the  road  was 
intimate  and  kind,  and  thus 
touched  the  founts  of  bravery  in 
the  two  venturous  hearts.  Cer 
tainly  they  would  go  on.  It  was 
no  matter  about  the  sun.  This 
was  the  valley  of  Ajalon, 
perhaps,  of  which  one  had  heard 
in  the  class  at  Sabbath  School. 
And  surely  this  was  a  good, 
droning,  yellow-bodied  bee — 
where  did  the  bees  go  to,  when 
they  rose  up  straight  into  the 
air  ?  And  this  little  mouse,  what 
became  of  it  in  winter?  And — 
125 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

ah!  What  was  that — that  awful 
burst  of  sound?  Clutch  closer, 
little  brother,  though  both  be 
pale !  How  should  either  of  you 
yet  know  the  thunderous  flight 
of  the  wild  grouse,  this  great 
bird  which  whirled  away  through 
the  brown  leaves  of  the  oaks? 
Father  must  be  asked  about  this 
tremendous,  startling  bird. 
Meantime,  the  heart  having 
begun  to  beat  again,  let  the  two 
adventurers  press  yet  a  little 
further  on. 

And  so,  with  fears  and  tremb 
lings,  with  doubts  and  joys, 
through  briars  and  flowers, 
through  hindrances  and  recom 
penses,  along  this  crooked,  wind 
ing,  unknown  road  which  led  on 
out  into  the  Unknown,  they 
wandered,  as  in  life  we  all  are 
wandering  today. 

But  hush  !  Listen !  What  is  it, 
this  sound,  approaching,  coming 
directly  toward  the  road  ?  Surely, 
it  must  be  the  footfall  of  some 
large  animal,  this  cadenced 
126 


THE   BEAST   TERRIBLE. 

rustling  on  the  leaves  !  It  comes 
—  it  will  cross  near  —  there,  it 
has  turned,  it  is  near  the  road  ! 
Look!  There  it  is,  a  great 
animal,  half  the  length  of  one's 
arm,  with  bushy,  long  red  tail 
arched  high  for  easier  running, 
its  grayish  coat  showing  in  the 
bars  of  sunlight,  its  eyes  bright 
and  black  and  keen.  Had  it  not 
been  said  there  were  wild  animals 
in  these  woods  ? 

Each  heart  now  thumped  hard 
with  the  surging  blood  it  bore  ; 
but  it  was  now  the  blood  of 
hunters  and  not  of  boys.  Fear 
vanished  at  the  sight  of  the 
quarry,  and  the  only  thought 
remaining  was  that  of  battle  and 
of  victory.  Well  for  the  animal 
that  it  ran — ill  for  it  that  it  ran 
down  the  road  and  not  back  into 
the  cover.  The  bow  twanged, 
the  arrow  flew— blunt,  but 
keenly  sped.  Down  went  the 
smitten  prey  !  Psean  !  Forward  ! 
Victory ! 

But  ho  !  the  creature  rallies — 
127 


THE  SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

recovers  !  It  gathers  its  forces, 
it  flies  !  Pursuit  then,  but  pursuit 
apparently  useless,  for  the  animal 
has  found  refuge  deep  in  this 
hollow  stump,  beyond  the  reach 
of  longest  mortal  arm  ! 

Rustle  now,  y  e  leaves,  and 
threaten  now,  all  ye  boughs  with 
menacings.  Roar,  grouse,  and 
clamor  on,  all  ye  jangling  jays. 
No  longer  can  ye  strike  terror 
into  these  two  souls,  small  though 
they  be.  The  heart  of  the 
hunter  has  now  been  born  for 
each.  Fear  and  defeat  are  known 
no  longer  in  the  compass  of  their 
thoughts.  Follow,  follow, 
follow  !  So  spake  the  good  old 
savagery  o  f  the  natural  man. 
Better  for  this  creature  had  it 
never  disturbed  these  two  with  its 
footfalls  approaching  among  the 
leaves.  Out  of  its  refuge  now 
must  it  come.  Yea,  though  one 
lost  a  thousand  suppers  that 
night,  and  though  a  thousand 
stones  lay  waiting  in  the  dark 
128 


THE   BEAST  TERRIBLE. 

along  the  road  to  hurt  bare, 
unprotected  toes. 

The  sun  forgot  its  part,  and  sunk 
red,  though  reluctant,  beyond 
the  Delectable  Mountains.  Thou 
moon,  this  is  Ajalon  !  Be  kindly, 
for  by  moonlight  one  still  may 
labor,  and  here  is  labor  to  be 
done.  Every  blade  in  the  Barlow 
knives  is  broken.  The  hole  in 
the  stump  yields  not  to  slashings, 
nor  to  attempts  to  pry  it  open. 
The  prey  is  still  unreached. 
What  is  to  be  done  ? 

The  elder  hunter  bethinks  him 
of  a  solution  for  this  problem. 
The  broken  blade  will  do  to  gnaw 
off  this  bough,  and  it  will  serve 
to  make  a  split  in  the  end  of  it. 
And  if  one  be  fortunate,  and  if 
this  split  bestride  the  tail  of  the 
concealed  animal,  and  if  the  stick 
be  twisted — 

"I've  got  him!"  cried  this 
philosopher  for  his  "  Eureka." 
And  then  there  was  twisting  and 
pulling,  and  scratching  and 
squeaking,  and  bitten  fingers  and 
129 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

tears ;  but  after  all  was  over,  there 
lay  the  squirrel  vanquished,  at 
the  feet  of  these  young 
barbarians  who  had  wandered 
out  from  home  into  the  unknown 
lands  of  earth. 

The  moon  was  over  Ajalon 
when  these  two  hunters,  after  all 
the  perils  of  the  long,  black  road, 
marched  up  into  the  door  yard, 
bearing  on  a  pole  between  them 
their  quarry,  well  suspended  by 
the  gambrels.  ' '  My  boys,  I 
feared  that  you  were  lost!" 
exclaims  the  tearful  mother  who 
stands  waiting  in  the  door.  But 
the  silent  father,  standing  back  of 
her  in  the  glow  of  the  lamplight, 
sees  what  the  pole  is  bearing, 
and  in  his  eye  there  is  a  smile. 
After  that,  motherly  reproach, 
fatherly  inquiry,  plenteous  bread 
and  milk,  many  eager  explana 
tions  and  much  descriptive 
narrative  simultaneously  uttered 
by  two  mouths  eager  to  both  eat 

and  talk. 

*         *         *         *         * 

130 


THE  BEAST  TERRIBLE. 

"I  see  it  all,"  I  said  to  the 
Singing  Mouse.  ' '  It  all  comes 
back  again.  No  chase  was  ever 
or  will  ever  be  so  great  as  this 
one — back  there,  near  the  Delec 
table  Mountains,  in  those  days 
gone  by,  those  incomparable  days 
of  youth  !  I  thank  you,  Singing 
Mouse  ;  but  I  beg  you  do  not  go 
for  yet  a  time.  The  heads  upon 
the  wall  grin  much,  and  the  dust 
lies  thick  upon  them  all." 


The  Passing 
of  Men. 


THE  PASSING 
OF  MEN. 

night  the  inoon  was 
shining  brightly  upon  the 
curtain,  which  had  been  drawn 
tightly  across  the  window.  Within 
the  room  the  light  was  dim,  so 
that  there  could  be  seen  clearly 
the  pictures  which  the  moon  was 
drawing  on  the  curtain ;  figures 
which  marched,  advanced, 
receded.  One  might  almost  have 
thought  these  the  shadows  of 
some  moving  boughs,  had  one 
not  known  the  wrays  the  moon 
has  at  certain  times. 

It  chanced  that  high  up  in  the 
curtain  there  was  a  tiny  hole, 
and  through  this  opening  the 
moonlight  streamed,  falling  upon 
the  table  in  a  small,  silvery 
ellipse,  of  a  size  which  one 
might  cover  ten  times  with  his 
hand.  It  was  natural  that  in 
this  little  well  of  pale  and  dream 
like  radiance  the  Singing  Mouse  y/7 
should  find  it  fit  to  manifest  *"? 
itself.  I  knew  not  when  it  came, 
135 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE  STORIES. 

but  as  I  looked,  the  spot  had 
found  a  tenant.  The  small, 
transparent  paws  of  the  Singing 
Mouse  displayed  no  shadow  as 
they  waved  and  swung  across 
this  pencil  of  the  pale,  mysterious 
light.  Yet  its  eyes  shone  opaline 
and  brilliant  as  it  sat,  so  that  I 
could  hardly  gaze  without  a 
shiver  of  surprise  akin  to  fear, 
fascinated  as  though  I  looked 
upon  a  thing  unreal.  Thus 
surrounded,  almost  one  might 
say  thus  penetrated,  by  the 
translucent  shaft  of  radiance 
which  came  through  the  window, 
the  Singing  Mouse  told  me  of 
the  figures  on  the  curtain,  which 
now  began  to  have  more  distinct 
semblances. 

"Do  you  see  the  figures 
there  ?  "  said  the  Singing  Mouse. 
"  Do  you  see  the  marching  men  ? 
Have  you  never  heard  the  hoofs 
ring  on  the  roof  when  the  wind 
blows  high?  Have  you  not 
seen  their  ranks  sweep  swift 
across  the  sky  when  storms 
136 


THE     PASSING    OF   MEN. 

arise?  Have  you  never  seen 
them  marching  through  the  long 
aisles  of  the  wood  at  night? 
These  are  the  warriors  of  the 
past.  Now  earth  has  always 
loved  the  warriors." 

I  looked,  and  indeed  it  was 
the  truth.  There  was  a  pano 
rama  on  the  curtain.  History 
had  unrolled  her  scroll.  The 
warriors  of  the  nations  and  the 
times  were  passing. 

I  saw  the  men  of  Babylon, 
and  those  who  came  out  of 
Egypt.  Dark  were  these  of  hair 
and  visage,  and  their  arms  were 
the  ancient  bow  and  spear.  And 
there  were  those  who  rode  light 
and  cast  back  their  rapid  archery. 
These  faded,  and  in  their  stead 
marched  men  close  knit  in  solid 
phalanx,  with  long  spears  offer 
ing  impenetrable  front.  In  turn 
these  passed  away,  and  there 
came  men  with  haughty  brow, 
who  bore  short  spears  and  swords. 
Near  by  these  were  wild,  huge 
men  of  yellow  hair,  whose  shields 
137 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

were  leather  and  whose  swords 
were  broad  and  long.  And  as 
I  gazed  at  all  of  these,  my  blood 
thrilling  strangely  at  the  sight, 
the  figures  blended  and  formed 
into  a  splendid  procession  of  a 
martial  day  gone  by.  I  saw 
them — a  long  stream  of  mounted 
men,  who  rode  in  helmet  and 
cuirass,  and  bore  each  aloft  a 
long-beamed  spear.  In  front  rode 
one  whose  mien  was  high  and 
stern,  and  who  might  well  have 
been  commander.  High  aloft  he 
tossed  his  great  sword  as  he 
rode,  and  sang  the  time  a  song 
of  war ;  and  as  he  sang,  the 
thousands  of  deep  throats  behind 
him  made  chorus  terrible  but 
stirring  in  its  chesty  melody,  for 
ictus  to  the  song  each  warrior 
smiting  sword  on  shield  in  a 
mighty  unison  whose  high, 
sonorous  note  thrilled  like  the 
voice  of  actual  war.  Steady  the 
strong  eyes  gleamed  out  and 
onward  as  they  rode.  From  the 
steel  clad  breast  of  each  there 
138 


THE    PASSING   OF   MEN. 

shone  forward  a  glancing  ray  of 
light,  as  though  it  came  direct 
from  the  heart,  untamed  even  by 
a  thousand  years  of  death.  My 
heart  leaped  to  see  them  ride, 
so  straight  and  stern  and  fearless, 
so  goodly,  so  glorious  to  look 
upon.  Came  the  rattle  of  chain, 
the  clang  of  arms,  the  jangle 
of  belt  and  spur;  and  still  the 
brave  procession  passed,  in  tens, 
in  hundreds,  in  thousands,  in  a 
long  wave  of  stately  men,  whose 
eyes  shone  each  in  all  the  bold 
delight  of  war.  Stooped  front, 
hooked  hand  and  avaricious 
eye — these  were  as  absent  as  the 
glow  of  gold  or  silver.  It  was 
the  glorious  age  of  steel. 

Still  on  they  passed,  always 
arising  the  hoarse  swell  of  the 
fighters'  chorus.  I  heard  the 
rumble  of  the  many  hoofs, 
thrilling  even  the  impassive 
earth.  The  spear  points  shone. 
The  harness  rattled.  The  pen 
nants  fluttered  stiffly  in  the 
breeze.  And  then  afar  I  heard 
139 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

a  sweet,  compelling  melody,  the 
invitation  of  the  bugle,  that 
dearest  mistress  of  the  heart  of 
man.  My  blood  leaped.  I 
started  up.  I  started  forward. 
The  sweep  of  the  ranks  drew  me 
on  and  in  irresistibly.  I  would 
have  raised  my  voice.  I  sought 
to  stay,  if  for  but  one  instant, 
this  army  of  brave  men,  this 
panorama  of  exalted  war,  this 
incomparable  pageant  of  a  day 
gone  by !  It  was  the  Singing 
Mouse  that  checked  me  ;  for  I 
heard  it  sigh  ; 

"Alas!" 

And  yet  again  the  scene  was 
changed.  Across  the  view 
streamed  yet  a  long  line  of  war 
riors.  The  hair  of  these  did  not 
float  yellow  from  beneath  loos 
ened  casque,  nor  indeed  did  these 
know  aught  of  armor,  nor  did 
they  march  with  banners  beckon 
ing,  nor  to  the  wooing  of  the 
trumpet's  voice.  The  skins  of 
these  were  red,  and  their  hair 
was  raven-black.  Arms  they 
140 


THE   PASSING   OF   MEN. 

had,  and  horses,  though  rude  the 
one  and  ill  caparisoned  the 
other.  Leather  and  wood,  and 
flint  and  sinew  served  them  for 
material.  Ill  armed  they  were; 
but  as  they  rode,  with  naked 
breasts,  and  painted  faces,  and 
tall  feathers  nodding  in  their 
plaited  hair,  out  of  the  eye  of 
each  there  shone  the  soul  of  the 
fighting  man,  the  warrior, 
beloved  since  ever  earth  began. 
Not  less  than  the  men  of  Babylon 
were  these,  nor  than  they  of  the 
ancient  bow  and  spear,  nor  than 
they  of  the  steel-clad  breast;  and 
as  I  saw  them  naked,  clad  on 
only  in  the  armor  of  a  man's 
fearlessness,  the  word  of  com 
mendation  was  as  ready  as  that 
of  pity. 

' '  They  are  late,  Singing 
Mouse,"  said  I,  "late  in  the 
day  of  war." 

"Yes,"    said    the    Singing 

Mouse,  with  sadness,    '  *  they  are 

late,  and  they  must   pass  away. 

But  they  are  warriors   of  proof, 

141 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

as  much  as  any  of  those  who 
have  passed.  Did  you  not  see 
the  melancholy  of  each  face  as 
it  looked  forward?  Their  fate 
was  known,  yet  they  rode 
forward  to  meet  it  fearlessly,  as 
brave  as  any  fighting  men  of 
all  the  years.  In  time,  they  too 
shall  have  their  story,  and  with 
the  other  warriors  of  the  earth 
shall  march  again  upon  the  page 
of  history." 

As  I  looked,  the  figures  of 
these  men  grew  dimmer  The 
tinkling  of  beaded  garments  and 
the  shuffling  of  the  ponies'  hoofs 
became  less  and  less  distinct,  and 
the  dust  cloud  of  their  traveling 
became  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
finally  faded  and  melted  away. 
The  curtain  was  bare.  I  heard 
the  sighing  of  the  wind. 


The  House 
of  Truth. 


THE  HOUSE 
OF  TRUTH. 


morning  I  lay  upon  my 
bed  in  the  little  room  which 
I  call  my  home.  Now,  among 
the  eaves  which  rise  opposite  to 
my  window  there  are  many  spar 
rows  which  have  also  made  their 
homes.  In  the  morning,  before 
the  sun  has  arisen,  and  at  the 
time  when  the  dawn  is  making 
the  city  gray  and  leaden  in  color 
instead  of  somber  and  black,  these 
sparrows  begin  to  chatter  and 
chirp  and  sing  in  discordant 
unison,  and  by  this  I  know  the 
day  has  come.  Upon  this  morn 
ing  it  seemed  to  me  the  sparrows 
chattered  with  an  unusual  com 
motion;  and  as  I  listened  I  heard 
from  another  window  near  by 
mine  the  voice  of  grief  and  lamen 
tation.  Then  I  knew  that  one 
who  had  long  been  sick  had 
passed  away.  As  the  gray 
morning  came  on,  this  spirit,  this 
spark  of  life,  had  gone  out  from 
its  accustomed  place.  As  the 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

day  came  on,  the  sounds  of 
lamentation  arose.  The  friends 
of  that  one  wept.  So  I  asked  the 
sparrows,  and  the  sun,  and  the 
gray  sky  why  these  friends  wept. 
What  is  grief?  I  asked  of  them. 
Why  should  these  weep  ?  What 
has  happened  when  one  dies? 
Where  has  the  spark  of  life  gone? 
Did  it  fall  to  these  sodden  pave 
ments,  forever  done,  or  did  it  go 
on  up,  to  meet  the  kiss  of  the 
rising  sun?  And  the  sparrows, 
which  fall  to  the  ground,  answered 
not.  The  sun  rose  calm  and 
passionless,  but  dumb.  The  sky 
folded  in,  large  but  inscrutable. 
None  the  less  arose  the  voice  of 
lamentation  and  of  woe. 

#•         *         #         *         # 

"I  ask  you,  Singing  Mouse/' 
said  I,  one  night  as  we  sat  alone, 
"What  is  the  truth?  How  do 
we  reach  it?  How  shall  we 
know  it  ?  Tell  me  of  this  spark 
that  has  gone  out.  Tell  me, 
what  is  life,  and  where  does  it 
go?  There  are  many  words. 
148 


THE   HOUSE   OF   TRUTH. 

Tell   me,    what   is   the   Truth? 

The  Singing  Mouse  gazed  at 
me  in  its  way  of  pity,  so  I  knew 
I  had  asked  that  which  could  not 
be.  Yet  even  as  I  saw  this  look 
appear  it  changed  and  vanished. 
And  as  the  Singing  Mouse  waved 
its  tiny  paw  I  forbore  reflection 
and  looked  only  on  the  scene 
which  now  was  spread  before  me. 
It  seemed  a  picture  of  actual 
colors,  and  I  could  see  it  plainly. 

I  saw  a  youth  who  stood  with 
one  older  and  of  austere  garb. 
By  the  vestments  of  this  older 
man  I  knew  he  was  of  those  who 
teach  people  in  spiritual  things. 
To  him  the  young  man  had  come 
in  anguish  of  heart.  Then  the 
older  man  of  priestly  garb  taught 
the  young  man  in  the  teachings 
that  had  come  down  to  him. 
But  the  youth  bowed  his  head 
in  trouble,  nor  was  the  cloud 
cleared  upon  his  heart.  I  heard 
him  murmur,  "Alas  !  what  is  the 
Truth?" 

So  I  saw  this  same  youth  pass 
149 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

on,  in  various  stages  of  this 
picture,  and  before  him  I  saw 
drawn  as  though  in  another 
picture,  a  panorama  of  the  edifices 
and  the  institutions  of  the 
religions  of  the  lands. 

But  the  years  passed,  and  the 
panorama  of  beliefs  swept  by,  and 
no  one  could  tell  this  man  what 
was  the  Truth. 

Yet  after  this  young  man  had 
ceased  to  query  and  had  closed 
his  books,  he  one  day  entered 
alone  into  one  of  the  great  edifices 
built  for  the  sake  of  that  which 
he  could  not  understand.  In  the 
picture  I  could  see  all  this.  I 
saw  the  young  man  cast  himself 
face  down  among  the  cushions  of 
a  seat,  and  there  he  lay  and 
listened  to  the  music.  This,  too, 
I  could  hear.  I  could  hear  the 
peal  of  the  organ  arise  like  voices 
of  the  spirits,  going  up,  up, 
whispering,  appealing,  promising, 
assuring.  Then — for  I  could  see 
and  hear  with  him — there  came 
to  that  young  man  when  he 
150 


THE   HOUSE   OF   TRUTH. 

ceased  to  seek,  the  very  exaltation 
he  had  longed  to  know. 

***** 

"  Ah  !  yes,  Singing  Mouse,"  I 
said,  ' '  it  was  very  beautiful.  But 
music  is  not  final.  Music  is  not 
the  Truth.  Tell  me  of  these 
things."' 

The  Singing  Mouse  again 
seemed  to  hesitate.  ' '  It  may 
be,"  said  the  Singing  Mouse, 
slowly,  "that  the  Truth  will 
never  b  e  found  between  the 
covers  of  any  book,  no  matter 
how  wise.  It  may  be  that  it  will 
never  be  found  by  any  who  search 
for  it  always  within  walls  built 
by  human  hands.  It  may  be 
that  no  man  can  convey  to 
another  that  which  is  the  truth  to 
him.  It  may  be  that  the  Truth 
can  never  be  grasped,  never  be 
weighed  or  formulated. 

"The  ways  of  Nature  are 
always  the  same,  but  Nature  does 
not  ask  exactness  of  form.  Why 
then  shall  we  ask  exactness  of 
faith  ?  The  true  faith  is  nothing 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

final,  not  more  than  are  final  the 
carved  stones  of  the  church  which 
offers  it  so  strenuously.  The 
stones  crumble  and  decay,  but 
new  churches  rise.  New  faiths 
will  rise.  But  were  not  all  well?" 

At  these  things  I  wondered, 
and  over  them  I  thought  for  a 
time,  but  yet  I  did  not  understand 
all  that  the  Singing  Mouse  had 
said.  As  if  it  knew  my  thought, 
the  Singing  Mouse  said  to  me  : 

"Your  vision  is  too  narrow. 
You  seek  the  great  truths  in 
small  places,  and  wonder  that 
you  do  not  find  them.  Come 
with  me." 

The  Singing  Mouse  waved  its 
hand,  as  was  its  wont,  and  as  in 
a  dream  and  as  though  I  were 
now  the  young  man  whom  we 
had  lately  seen,  I  was  trans 
ported,  by  what  means  I  could 
not  tell,  into  a  place  far  distant. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  me  there  was 
a  figure  in  vestments,  speaking 
of  I  scarce  knew  what.  Again 
there  was  a  church  or  a 
152 


THE   HOUSE   OF   TRUTH. 

cathedral.  I  could  see  the  rafters 
as  I  lay.  I  could  hear  the  solemn 
and  exalted  peal  of  the  organ.  I 
could  hear  voices  that  sang  up 
and  up,  thrilling,  compelling. 

The  sense  of  the  confinement 
of  the  building  ceased.  Insen 
sibly  I  seemed  to  see  the  hewn 
stones  of  the  walls  assume  their 
primeval  and  untouched  state 
beneath  the  grasses  of  the  hills. 
I  could  feel  the  rafters  vanishing 
and  going  back  into  the  bodies  of 
the  oaks  in  which  they  originally 
grew.  The  voice  of  the  organ 
remained  with  me,  but  it  might 
have  been  the  roll  of  the  waves 
upon  the  shore.  I  was  in  the 
Temple.  I  sought  not  for  names. 

It  was  night.  I  lay  upon  a 
bank  of  sweet-smelling  grasses, 
and  about  me  were  the  great  oaks. 
The  organ,  or  the  waves,  spoke 
on.  I  looked  up,  up,  into  the 
great  circle  of  the  sky,  so  far,  so 
blue,  so  kind  in  its  bending  over, 
so  pitying  it  seemed  to  me,  yet  so 
high  in  its  up-reaching.  I  looked 
153 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

upon  the  glorious  pageant  of  the 
stars. 

1  'That  star,"  thought  I,  ' 'shone 
over  the  grave  of  some  ancestor 
of  mine;  back,  back  in  the 
unmirrored  past,  some  father  of 
some  father  of  mine.  He  is  gone, 
like  a  fly.  He  is  dust.  I  may  be 
lying  on  his  grave.  Soon,  like  a 
fly,  I  too  shall  be  dead,  gone, 
turned  into  dust.  But  the  star 
will  still  shine  on.  Small  as  that 
father's  dust  may  be,  that  dust 
still  lives.  It  is  about  me.  This 
grass,  these  trees,  may  hold  it. 
He  has  lived  again  in  the  cycle  of 
natural  forces.  My  dust,  when  I 
am  dead,  will  in  turn  make  part 
of  this  world,  one  of  an  unknown 
sea  of  stars.  Small  then,  as  I 
am,  I  am  kin  to  that  star.  The 
stars  go  on.  Nature  goes  on. 
Then  shall  man— shall  I—" 

'  'Ah, ' '  said  the  Singing  Mouse, 
its  voice  sounding  I  knew  not 
whence;  "from  this  place  can 
you  see  ? ' ' 

So  now  I  thought  I  began  to  see 
154 


THE    HOUSE    OF   TRUTH. 

what  I  had  not  seen  before.  And 
since  this  was  in  the  land  of  the 
Singing  Mouse,  I  sought  to  find 
no  name  for  what  I  saw,  nor 
tried  to  measure  it.  What  one 
man  sees  is  not  what  another  sees. 
Shall  one  claim  wisdom  beyond 
his  neighbor?  Are  not  the  stars 
his  also,  and  the  trees  his  to 
talk  with  him?  Are  not  the  doors 
always  open?  Does  not  the 
music  of  the  organ  ever  roll,  do 
not  the  voices  always  rise  ? 

Had  it  not  been  for  the 
Singing  Mouse,  I  should  not 
have  thought  these  things. 


Where  the 
City  Went. 


WHERE  THE 
CITY  WENT. 

day  there  was  a  white 
frost  that  fell  upon  the  city, 
lasting  for  many  hours,  so  that  a 
strange  thing  happened,  at  which 
men  wondered  very  much.  The 
city  put  aside  its  colors  of 
black  and  brown  and  gray,  and 
dressed  itself  in  silvery  white. 
No  stone  nor  brick  was  seen 
except  in  this  silvern  frosty  color. 
All  the  spires  were  glittering  in 
silver,  and  all  the  columns  bore 
traceries  as  though  the  hands  of 
spirits  had  labored  long  and 
delicately  and  had  seen  their 
tender  fretwork  frozen  softly  but 
forever  into  silver.  The  gross 
city  had  put  aside  corporal  things, 
and  for  once  its  spirit  shone  fair 
and  radiant,  so  that  men  said 
that  no  such  thing  had  ever  been 
before. 

That    evening    the    frost   still 

remained,  and  as  the  night  came 

on   a   mist    fell   upon    the    city. 

From   the  windows  men   looked 

159 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

out,  and  lo  !  the  beautiful  city  so 
made  spiritual  was  vanishing. 
One  by  one  the  great  buildings, 
the  tall  spires,  the  lofty  columns 
had  faded  into  a  white  dream, 
dimmer,  fainter,  less  and  less 
perceptible,  seen  through  a  gentle 
envelope  of  whitening  haze. 
This  thing  was  of  a  sort  almost 
to  make  one  tremble  as  he  looked 
upon  it,  for  the  city  which  had 
been  silver  had  turned  to  mist, 
and  the  mist  seemed  fair  to  turn 
into  a  dream.  There  are  those 
who  say  it  did  become  a  dream, 
and  afterward  descended,  a 
glorious  White  City,  seen  for  a 
time  upon  the  earth  and  so 
beloved  of  men  that  it  has  never 
been  forgotten.  And  wanderers 
in  desert  countries  tell  that  at 
times  they  have  seen  this  same 
city  of  dreams,  alluringly 
beautiful,  but  evanescent,  intang 
ible,  unattainable,  trembling  and 
floating  upon  the  wavering  air. 
Now  when  I  saw  the  city  thus 
fade  away  and  disappear,  I  sat 
1 60 


WHERE   THE   CITY  WENT. 

down  at  my  table,  and,  as  many 
men  did  that  night,  I  wondered 
much  at  what  I  had  seen.  For 
surely  the  soul  of  the  city  had 
arisen.  Then  the  Singing  Mouse 
came  and  gazed  into  my  face. 

1  *  What  you  have  seen  is  true, ' ' 
said  the  Singing  Mouse.  '  'There 
is  no  city  now.  It  has  gone. 
You  have  seen  it  disappear.  Its 
soul  has  arisen.  This  does  not 
often  happen,  yet  it  can  be,  for 
even  the  city  has  a  soul  if  you 
can  find  it. 

' '  But  if  I  say  the  city  has 
gone,  I  mean  only  that  it  has  left 
the  place  where  once  it  was. 
That  which  once  was,  is  always, 
corporate  or  not  corporate.  We  err 
only  when  we  ask  to  see  all  with 
our  eyes,  to  balance  all  within 
our  hands.  Come  with  me,  and  I 
will  show  you  where  the  city 
went." 

So  now  the  Singing  Mouse 
waved  its  hands,  and  I  saw, 
though  I  knew  not  where  I  looked, 

I   saw   a   country    where    the 
161 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

trees  grew  big  and  where  the 
wild-fowl  came.  It  was  where 
the  trees  had  never  been  felled, 
nor  had  the  stones  ever  been 
hewn.  The  sky  was  blue,  and 
the  water  was  blue,  except  where 
it  played  and  laughed,  and  there 
it  was  white. 

There  was  a  small  h  o  u  s  e,  of 
a  vSort  one  has  never  seen,  for 
none  in  the  cities  are  like  it.  The 
blue  smoke  curling  from  the 
chimney  named  it  none  the  less  a 
home.  I  hardly  knew  what  time 
or  place  we  had  come  upon,  for 
the  Singing  Mouse,  whose  voice 
seemed  high  and  exalted,  spoke 
as  though  much  was  in  the  past. 

"This  is  a  Home,"  said  the 
Singing  Mouse.  "Once  there 
were  no  homes.  In  those  days 
there  was  only  one  fire,  and  it 
was  red.  By  this  man  sat.  He 
sought  not  to  see. 

' '  Once  a  man  sat  at  night  and 
looked  up  at  the  heavens,  seek 
ing  to  know  what  the  stars  were 
saying.     He  besought  the  stars, 
162 


WHERE   THE   CITY   WENT. 

praying  to  them  and  asking  them 
to  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  water, 
and  to  the  voice  of  the  oaks  and 
to  the  whispers  of  the  grasses,  and 
to  tell  him  why  the  fire  of  earth 
was  red,  while  the  fire  of  the  stars 
was  white. 

1 l  Now  while  this  man  besought 
the  stars,  to  him  a  strange  thing 
happened.  As  he  looked  up  he 
saw  falling  from  the  heavens 
above  him  a  ray  of  the  white 
light  of  the  stars.  It  fell  near  to 
him  and  lay  shining  like  a  jewel 
in  the  grass.  To  this  the  man 
ran  at  once,  gladly,  and  took  up 
the  white  light,  and  put  it  in  his 
bosom,  that  the  winds  might  not 
harm  it.  Always  this  man  kept 
the  white  light  in  his  bosom  after 
that.  And  by  its  light  he  saw 
many  things  which  till  that  time 
men  had  never  known.  This 
man  found  that  this  new  light, 
with  the  red  light  that  had  been 
known ,  filled  all  his  house  with 
a  great  radiance,  so  that  small 
strifes  were  not  so  many,  and  so 
163 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE   STORIES. 

that  life  became  plain  and  sweet. 
This  then  that  you  see  is  that 
Home.  This  that  you  see  around 
you,  the  large  trees  and  the  green 
grass,  and  the  blue  sky  and  the 
smiling  waters,  all  this  is  wealth; 
wealth  not  corporate,  wealth 
valuable,  wealth  that  belongs  to 
every  man  ever  born  upon  the 
earth,  and  which  can  not  of  right 
ever  be  taken  away  from  him. 
Shorn  of  that,  he  is  poor  indeed, 
though  not  so  poor  as  he  who 
shore  him.  Unshorn  of  this,  he 
is  rich.  In  our  land  our  hearts 
ache  to  see  these  terms  misused, 
and  that  called  wealth  which  is 
so  far  from  worth  the  having. 
But  here,  where  I  have  brought 
you,  you  shall  see  humanity 
undwarfed,  and  you  shall  see 
peace  and  largeness  in  the  life 
which  you  once  thought  small 
and  sordid." 

Then  as  I  looked,  there   step 
ped    from    the  house  a  man,    or 
one  whom  I   took  to  be  a  man. 
This  man  stood  in  the  cool,  fresh 
164 


WHERE   THE   CITY  WENT. 

morning,  and  gazed  at  the  sun, 
now  rising  above  the  tops  of  the 
great  trees.  He  smiled  gently, 
and  taking  in  each  hand  a  little 
water  from  a  tiny  stream  that 
flowed  near  by,  he  raised  his 
hands,  and  still  smiling,  offered 
tribute  of  the  water  to  the  sun. 

I  saw    the    water   falling   down 
from  his  hands  in  a  small  stream 
of  silver  drops,  shining  brightly. 
It  was  the  way  of  the  land,  the 
Singing  Mouse  said ;  for  they 
thought  that  as  the  water  came 
from  the  sky  and  returned  to  it, 
so  did  man  and  the  thoughts  of 
man,  and    the    fruits  of  his  pro 
gress,  never  to  be  destroyed. 

At  all  this  I  looked  almost  in 
fear,  for  the  thought  came  that 
perhaps  this  was  not  man  as  we 
knew  him,  but  the  successor  of 
man.  "  Where  is  this  land?"  I 
asked  of  the  Singing  Mouse, 

II  and   what    is    this   time    upon 
which  we  have  come?" 

The  Singing  Mouse  looked  at 
the  green  trees,  and  at  the  kind 
165 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE    STORIES. 

sun,  and  at  the  blue  sky  and  the 
pleasant  waters,  and  it  said  to 
me  slowly,  "  There  was  once  a 
city  where  these  trees  now  stand/* 


The  Bell  an< 
the  Shadows 


THE  BELL  AND 
THE  SHADOWS. 

unformulate,  music 
immaterial,  such  was  the 
voice  of  the  Singing  Mouse  ; 
faint,  small  and  clear,  a  piping 
of  fifes  so  fine,  a  touching  of 
strings  so  delicate,  that  it  seemed 
to  come  from  instruments  of 
beryl  and  of  diamond,  a  phantom 
music,  impossible  to  fetter  with 
staff  or  bar,  and  past  the  hope 
of  compassing  in  words. 

It  was  the  last  night  of  the 
year,  and  the  bell  upon  the 
church  near  by  had  made  many 
strokes  the  last  time  it  had  been 
heard ;  many  heavy  strokes  which 
throbbed  sullenly,  mournfully 
on  the  air.  The  presence  of 
passing  Time  was  at  hand. 
The  year  would  soon  join 
the  years  gone  by.  Regret, 
remorse,  despair,  abandonment, 
the  hopelessness  of  humanity — 
was  it  the  breath  of  these  which 
arose  and  burdened  heavily  the 
note  of  the  chronicling  bell  ? 
171 


THE   SINGING   MOUSE  STORIES. 

Where  were  the   chimes  of  joy? 
***** 

' '  These  shadows  that  you  see 
are  not  upon  the  wall,"  said  the 
Singing  Mouse.  ' '  They  are  very 
much  beyond  the  windows.  If 
we  only  look  out  from  our  win 
dows,  there  are  always  great 
pictures  waiting  for  us — pictures 
in  pearl  and  opal,  in  liquid 
argent,  in  crimson  and  gold. 
But  always  there  must  be  the 
shadows.  Without  these,  there 
can  be  no  picture  anywhere. 

"Have  you  not  seen  what  the 
shadows  do?  Have  you  not 
seen  them  trooping  through  the 
oak  forest  in  the  evening,  through 
the  pine  forest  in  open  day, 
across  the  prairies  under  the 
moon  at  night,  legions  of  them, 
armies  of  them?  Have  you 
never  seen  them  march  across  the 
grass-lands  in  the  day  time, 
cohort  after  cohort,  hurrying  to 
the  call  of  the  unseen  trumpets? 
In  the  woods,  have  you  never 
heard  strange  sounds,  when  you 
172 


THE    BELL   AND    THE    SHADOWS. 

put  your  ear  to  the  ground — 
sounds  untraceable  to  any  animate 
life?  Have  you  never  heard 
vague  voices  in  the  trees  ?  Have 
you  not  heard  distant,  mysterious 
noises  in  the  forest,  whose  cause 
you  could  never  learn,  seek  no  f/fi 
matter  how  you  might?  These 
were  the  voices  of  the  shadows, 
the  people  who  live  there.  Who 
else  should  it  be  to  whisper  and 
sing  to  you  and  make  you  happy 
when  you  are  there  ?  Without 
these  people,  what  would  be  the 
woods,  the  prairies,  the  waters, 
the  sky,  the  world? 

1 '  Without  the  shadows,  too, 
what  would  be  our  lives? 
Thoughts,  thoughts  and  remem 
brances,  what  have  we  that  is 
sweeter  than  these?  Have 
you  never  seen  the  smile  upon 
the  lips  of  those  who  have  died  ? 
They  say  they  are  looking  upon 
the  Future.  Perhaps  they  look 
also  upon  the  Past,  and  therefore 
smile  in  happiness,  seeing  again 
Youth,  and  Hope,  and  Faith, 


THE   SINGING    MOUSE   STORIES. 

and  Trust,  which  are  tender  and 
beautiful  things.  Life  has  no 
actuality  of  its  own,  and  in 
material  sense  is  only  a  con 
tinual  change.  But  the  shadows 
of  thought  and  of  remembrance 
do  not  change.  It  is  only  the 
shadows  that  are  real." 

As  I  pondered  upon  this,  there 
£tf  .  passed  by  many  pleasant  pictures 
upon  the  wall,  after  the  way  the 
Singing  Mouse  had;  many 
pictures  of  days  gone  by,  which 
made  me  think  that  perhaps 
what  the  Singing  Mouse  had  said 
was  true. 

I  could  see  the  boy,  sitting  idle 
and  a -dream,  watching  the 
shadows  drifting  across  the  clover 
fields  where  the  big  bees  came. 
I  saw  the  youth  wandering  in 
the  woods  where  the  squirrels 
lived,  loitering  and  looking, 
peering  into  corners  full  of  the 
secrets  of  the  wild  creatures, 
unraveling  the  delicious 
mysteries  which  Nature  ever 
offers  to  those  not  yet  grown 
174 


THE    BELL   AND   THE    SHADOWS. 

old.  It  was  a  comfortable 
picture,  full  of  the  brilliant  greens 
of  springtime,  the  mellow  tints  of 
summer,  the  red  and  russet  of 
autumn  days,  the  blue  and  white 
of  winter.  I  could  hear,  also, 
sounds  intimately  associated 
with  the  scenes  before  me  ;  the 
bleat  of  little  lambs,  the  low 
of  cattle,  the  neighing  of  a 
distant  horse.  And  then  both 
sound  and  scene  progressed,  and 
as  the  woods  and  hills  grew 
bolder  and  more  wild,  I  could 
hear  again  the  rifle's  thin  report, 
could  note  the  whisper  of  the 
secret-loving  paddle,  the  slipping 
of  the  snow-shoe  on  the  snow, 
the  clatter  of  the  hoofs  of 
horses,  the  baying  of  the  bell- 
mouthed  hounds.  The  delights 
of  it  all  came  back  again,  and 
in  this  varied  phantom  chase 
among  the  keen  joys  of  the  past, 
I  saw  as  plainly  and  exultantly 
as  ever  in  my  life,  the  panorama 
of  the  brown  woods,  and  the  gray 
plains,  and  the  purple  hills — saw 


THE  SINGING   MOUSE  STORIES. 

it  distinctly,  with  all  the  old 
vibrant  joy  of  youth — line  for 
line,  sound  for  sound,  shadow  for 
shadow  ! 

And  then  the  Singing  Mouse, 
without  wish  of  mine,  caused 
these  scenes  to  change  into  others 
of  more  quiet  sort,  which  told 
not  of  the  field,  but  of  the  home. 
In  the  shadows  of  evening,  I 
seemed  to  see  a  pleasant  place, 
well  surrounded  by  trees  and 
flowers,  the  leaves  of  which  were 
stirred  softly  in  the  breath  of  a 
faint  summer  breeze,  strong 
enough  only  to  carry  aloft  in  its 
hands  the  odor  of  the  blooming 
rose.  This  picture  faded  slowly. 
There  were  shadows  in  the  spaces 
between  the  trees.  There  were 
shadows  in  the  dark-growing 
vine  which  draped  a  column. 
One  could  only  guess  if  he  caught 
sight  of  garb  or  of  the  outline 
of  a  form  among  the  shadows. 
He  could  only  guess,  too, 
whether  he  heard  music,  faint  as 
the  breeze,  faint  as  the  incense 
176 


THE   BELL   AND   THE   SHADOWS. 

of  the  flowers.       He  could  only 
guess  if  he  had  seen  the  image 
of    the    House     Beautiful,    that 
temple  known  as  Home. 
#         #•         *         #         * 

''Thoughts,"  said  the  Singing 
Mouse,  softly.  <l  Thoughts  and 
remembrances.  These  are  the 
things  that  live  forever.  It  is 
only  the  shadows  that  are  real ! ' ' 

The  solemn  note  of  the  bell 
struck  in.  It  counted  twelve. 
The  new  year  had  come.  The 
chimes  of  joy  arose.  But  still 
the  faint  music  from  the  Past 
had  not  died  away,  and  still  the 
shadows  waved  and  beckoned  on 
the  wall,  strong  and  beautiful, 
and  enduring,  and  not  like  the 
fading  of  a  dream.  So  then  I 
knew  that  what  the  Singing 
Mouse  had  said  was  true,  and 
that  it  is,  indeed,  only  the 
shadows  that  are  real. 


THE  KND. 


"There  was  once  a  city  where  these  trees 
now  stand." 


ED    AT    THE    PRESS    OF    GEO.    E.   COLE    *    CO.,    CHICAGO, 
WITH     LITTLE    PICTURES    MADE     BY    W.   S.    PHILLIPS, 


KE  I:  A  r  T  f. 


